


Mending Wall

by SophiaCatherine, Thette



Series: Afternoons and Coffee Spoons [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Aromantic Mick Rory, Asexual Leonard Snart, Autistic Mick Rory, Failure to Communicate, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence, Queerplatonic Relationships, Some Whump, Unhealthy Relationships, brief incident of domestic violence, qpr!coldwave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaCatherine/pseuds/SophiaCatherine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thette/pseuds/Thette
Summary: If Mick could have predicted how he'd run into Len again, twenty years after they first met as teenagers, it wouldn't... okay, yeah, it would probably go like this.OR: Two broken people reconnect, try to fix each other's lives, and learn that they can only do that themselves.





	1. New Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He dropped the bag on the ground, pulling out three paperclips and slipping them into position in the lock with a practiced ease that he wished he could forget.
> 
> _Next you’ll be burning down houses again._
> 
> He shifted and twisted the pins inside the lock with an expert dexterity, and—Yes! The lock gave and turned. He shoved the door open.
> 
> And walked straight into the barrel of a raised gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Thette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thette/pseuds/Thette) for excellent beta reading.

** 3 Years Ago **

_In the dark little office, the stuttering fan in the corner was doing nothing for the heat._ _Mick fidgeted with his loose-fitting tie and tapped his foot in an unrelenting pattern._

_“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Rory. We like you here. You’ve been an excellent mechanic for, what is it, fifteen years now?”_

_On the other side of the Fire Captain’s desk, Mick shifted in his seat. “Twelve,” he said._

_“Right, right. But you came here on community service long before that, yes? And we certainly value your hard work. But, Rory—” He scrutinized Mick over his glasses. “Firefighting? Even as a volunteer? I don’t know.”_

_Mick stared at the glossy black desk, an impassable barrier between them._

_Captain Banerjee was still talking. “Recommending someone with your, er,_ history _for the firefighter training…” He shook his head. “I’m gonna have to make a really great argument that you’re a safe choice. And even if I can find a way to overlook all that—Rory, you don’t have a high school diploma.”_

_Mick looked at the box of yellow and red pencils in front of him. He was quiet for a minute, feeling the captain’s eyes taking him in. Eventually, he heard the captain sigh. “How committed are you to this, Rory?”_

_Hesitantly, Mick raised his eyes. “I wanna be a firefighter, Sir.”_

_The captain slapped his hand down on the binder in front of him. (Mick tried not to flinch.) “All right,” he said. “If you’re really up to it, prove it to me. Get your GED. Then I’ll consider approving you for training, if you pass the entrance exam. You’ll need to show me that your doctors think it’s not going to be a problem for you. Stay in treatment, all that jazz. And, Rory—“ He looked at him with stern, narrow eyes, pointing a finger. “You’re gonna have to stay out of trouble.” Mick swallowed, but didn’t interrupt. “I know you’ve been doing better on that score. You’re gonna need to_ keep _doing better, okay?”_

_A spark of hope flickered inside him. “Okay. Yeah, okay.”_

_“And there’s a psych eval after the training that’s got nothing to do with me. You’ll have to get through that too.” The captain laughed, not unkindly. “Quite a task you’re setting yourself, son.”_

_Mick nodded, wide-eyed, reaching forward to offer his hand to the captain. “I can do it, Sir.”_

_The captain leaned forward in his own chair to shake Mick’s hand, smiling. “I don’t doubt it, Mr Rory.”_

* * *

 

**Now **

The new guy next door was _loud_. 

He wasn’t ‘loud music’ loud—which was good, because Mrs DiGrazia had bothered him with enough swoopy-voice shit for one lifetime. Or ‘loud sex’ loud—Mick thanked any saints whose names he could remember for that. But the guy would not keep the fucking noise down.

Mostly, Mick kept hearing stuff breaking. What sounded like tiles falling off the wall, one day. A TV clearly on the blink, another. Some kind of banging in the pipes, ongoing, that he could have sworn hadn’t been there when Mrs DiGrazia had lived on the other side of the wall.

Worse, New Guy clearly wasn’t doing well at fixing any of it. There was a lot of angry snarking—about a stove that wouldn’t light (“What exactly are you _for_?”), a window that wouldn’t open (“Well, I guess I’ll just sit here and get heatstroke. _Fantastic_ ”), a shower that wouldn’t turn on (“What am I supposed to do now, you useless piece of junk—bathe in the sink?”). Apparently the shit in his apartment was deteriorating on a schedule, and soon New Guy had started ranting over something broken almost every day. When he wasn’t doing that, he was making noisy, aborted efforts to fix things. Mick tried not to, but he would end up listening, tapping his feet on the floor or his fingers on the table, until it was quiet again.

A few days after New Guy moved in, Mick got home late from a night shift, staggering in and tripping over a pile of firefighter certification books. Sitting in his tiny, cluttered kitchen, he tried to berate himself into winding down from work, glowering at a beer he barely touched. It was 5 a.m. when he made it to bed, and he was finally dropping off to sleep when he heard something breaking on the other side of the wall. Then his new neighbor started swearing up a storm.

“Great,” Mick grunted. He sat up in bed, listening for more, but the noise died down as quickly as it had started. For the first time in years, Mick found himself wishing he could just set fire to something. He didn’t. He lay awake watching shadows, and it wasn’t until gray light started to seep through the holes in his curtains that he finally passed out again.

The smell started on day seven after New Guy’s arrival. Given the clanging and swearing that came with it, Mick quickly identified it as a blocked sink. Loud grumbling followed. All fucking day long.

Mick sat at his kitchen table and listened to the muted tones of a phone call next door, hearing every word. “I know, but I can’t afford a plumber. Well, no, none of this would be happening if he’d do that, but he seems to bask in the slum landlord stereotype. You should see the place, Lise…” The call faded out as his neighbor moved to another room.

Mick stared at the grimy surface of the table. He thought about going over there. Knocking on the door. Telling his neighbor he knew how to fix a blocked sink. Offering to help.

He did none of that. He stared at his table, and counted his breaths, and tried—and failed—not to listen to New Guy snarking at his sink.

* * *

 

Len stood in his kitchen and glared at the sink. The one that he hadn’t been able to do anything about himself. That he’d had to stand uselessly by and watch the plumber fix. The plumber who had charged him $140.

“You could try getting the landlord to refund it,” Lisa suggested, on the other end of the phone line.

He started moving cups out of the tiny dishwasher and into the cupboard with the door that refused to shut. “And how do we think that’s gonna go for me, hmm?”

“Did you even look at this place before you signed a contract?”

Len rolled his eyes, even though Lisa couldn’t see it. “Yes, Lisa. Best I could afford.”

“Well, you’re still a sucker.”

“Thank you.” He reached down with another cup.

“What are sisters for? I did offer to come and help you fix the sink.”

He grimaced at that one. Sure, she'd be happy to help, but she’d probably hold it over his head forever. It would be even more humiliating than hiring a professional to do his basic household maintenance. “It’s sorted,” he muttered.

“Gotta go. I’m going out.”

Len chuckled. “What’s their name?”

“Who?” she said in a tone of sickly-sweet innocence that he knew well and had never believed—not when she was trying to pretend she had paid for the new Ice Skater Barbie that had suddenly appeared in her bedroom one day, and not now.

“Your date. You’ve been on edge the whole time we’ve been talking.”

He could almost hear her scowling on the other end of the line. “I have not. I’m as confident and charming as ever, thank you. And… her name’s Shawna. She’s a medical student.”

“Fancy,” he drawled, honestly a little impressed.

“Shut up. Engineering students are fancy too.”

“You keep telling yourself that, kid.” He put away the last of the cups and closed the cupboard door—whereupon one hinge fell off and the door slid crookedly out of place. He swore under his breath and said his goodbyes. Then he stood awkwardly gripping the counter, trying to push the creature of torment back into position with his knee. Well, at least the sink was fixed. Guess he could thank whatever shitty entity ran the universe, and apparently had a personal vendetta against him, for that. With a sigh, he sat down—maybe a little heavily—at the kitchen table.

The door fell off the cupboard.

He went to bed.

* * *

 

The hallway was an oasis of dark and quiet. Mick was still curled up in the corner where he had retreated ten minutes before, clutching a can of beer that he didn’t want anymore.

He’d had a few too many—always dangerous. Should have seen it coming, really.

Finally, he stumbled to his feet and reached for the door ahead of him, fumbling for his keys. Which immediately got stuck, refusing to turn. _Fuck it._ Well, he still remembered how to pick a lock, especially these crappy pin-and-tumbler locks that he’d already complained to the landlord about, the last three times someone broke into his apartment. He cursed under his breath, wishing —for the first time in maybe twenty years—that he still carried a lock-picking set on him. It had been a while since he’d done this without. A while since he’d done it all. But he’d gone out straight from work, and his satchel was over his arm. He dropped it on the ground, pulling out three paperclips and slipping them into position in the lock with a practiced ease that he wished he could forget.

_Next you’ll be burning down houses again._

He shifted and twisted the pins inside the lock with an expert dexterity, and—Yes! The lock gave and turned. He shoved the door open.

And walked straight into the barrel of a raised gun.

* * *

 

Len startled out of sleep, gripping the dented headboard behind him. It had been a long time since he’d last heard a lock being picked, but even in his groggy state he could make out pins scraping against tumblers in the next room. Cursing his failure to get round to putting in an alarm, he reached under the bed and groped for his trusty back-up security system—a shotgun.

He cradled it upright against his side as he approached the door. Then he listened, counted, and cocked the gun just as the door swung open, bringing him eye to eye with a guy who, Len was almost willing to admit, was fairly imposing.

“The hell you doing in my apartment?” the big man growled.

Len felt his eyes widen for a second. Then he slammed his hand against the number 19 on the door, still open next to him. “You just broke into _my_ apartment. Gonna tell me what you’re playing at, or shall we skip the introductions and get straight to me blowing your brains out?”

The big guy, who was apparently a bit lacking in common sense, was waving vaguely in his direction. “You’re New Guy.”

“What?”

He was stumbling over his words. “You just—just moved in…” Then he blinked a few times and raised a shaky finger at Len—quite a risk, given the gun. He was either drunk, or a complete fool. “It’s _you.”_ He hesitated, lowering his gaze, then his eyes flickered back up. “It is you, right? From juvie? Snart?”

_Huh._

Len lowered the gun—at which the big guy visibly relaxed—and nodded slowly. “Leonard. You’re Mick Rory, right?”

A sudden unexpected grin confirmed his guess, the guy slapping his hand on the door frame. “Right! We shared a cell, right? For a few weeks, after that—“ he waved vaguely, “incident.”

Len’s hand ghosted across his right side. “Yeah,” he said, after a second. He stood back, taking Rory in. He hadn’t aged well, although he was probably thinking that about Len, too. Even beyond the simple changes that could be expected after twenty years, there were dark shadows under his eyes and he was clearly underweight.

“Sorry,” he was saying now, red and stuttering. “Had—had a few too many, y’know?”

“ _Really_.” Len had been aiming for a chilly drawl, but he could feel the shadow of a smile playing across his face. “You broke into the wrong apartment thinking it was yours. I wasn’t guessing you were _sober_.”

“Yeah. I’ll—uh, I’ll get outta your way.”

As Rory turned away, Len’s eyes dropped to his shaking hands—and surely that wasn’t just about the gun. “Hey, Rory,” he said, and put a hand on his shoulder.

He pulled back in a bit of a flinch, and Len filed that away to ponder later. “Mick,” he muttered, wide-eyed and staring at the floor.

“Mick. You sure you’re okay to go back to an empty apartment?”

“I’m good,” he said, but his arms were wrapping around himself in a way that made Len doubt it.

Narrowing his eyes, Len turned into the apartment and moved to the kitchen area, just beyond the door. “So, I was thinking of making pancakes. What do you say—stay for some?” He was already pulling supplies out of the cupboards.

“Uh, you know it’s 5 a.m., right?” Mick offered tentatively from the doorway.

Len didn’t turn around, starting to mix pancake batter. “Were you really going to bed?”

Mick took his time responding. “I guess not right now.”

“Well then. Pass me the milk.” Len pointed at the half-sized fridge on the floor next to the counter. Mick opened it without complaining and passed him a little carton of milk. Then he reached across Len, to where the cupboard door was leaning on the floor, picking up it up and moving the loose hinges back into place. Len stopped mixing and looked over at him. “How d’you do that?”

Mick shrugged. “It’ll come loose again. Screws aren’t tight. You got a screwdriver?”

“Um.” Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure he did.

Mick was already reaching into his satchel, though. He rummaged around in it. Then he put his whole head in.

Len felt his eyebrows rising. “Uh….”

“Wait—no, that’s—aha!” He emerged, finally, brandishing a small screwdriver.

He found himself nodding approval, and Mick crouched by the door and turned the screws back into place. Len peered down to admire his skill from his spot by the counter. “Hey, can you do anything else like that?” He pointed at the broken tiles on his washed-out gray kitchen floor, and snorted. “Been having a little trouble.”

Mick grinned. “I been hearing. Yeah, I could fix you those back on. Twenty minutes.”

Len looked askance at him, blinking. “Sure. I’d owe you. And what do you mean, you’ve been hearing?”

Finally relaxing, Mick leaned against the other end of the counter and grinned. “Guess you ain’t figured out how thin these walls are yet.”

“Well. You’re pretty quiet, Mick.”

“You’re not,” Mick said, then laughed at his own joke.

Len turned, fully intending to give him a withering look. But Mick was wearing a self-satisfied smile that was oddly charming, and Len chuckled.

His smile suddenly turned bashful, Mick looked over at him. “What?”

“Never mind.” He shook his head and went back to mixing, glancing over at his new friend now and then.

Mick had moved on to examining the other doors embarrassingly hanging off Len’s cupboards. “Did you even look at this place before you moved in?”

“Don’t you start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all but fully drafted, but I've been writing it to give me some much-needed distraction from deadline-y things. So I'll be aiming for regular updates, but might occasionally have to slow down. About 10 chapters are planned, but that number might change a bit. Enjoy!
> 
> Inspired by a conversation where I hashed out initial ideas with [voiceofdragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceofdragons/pseuds/voiceofdragons) and [youmakemesoangry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youmakemesoangry/pseuds/youmakemesoangry). Thanks to them and [StillNotGinger10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StillNotGinger10/pseuds/StillNotGinger10), [blue_wonderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/blue_wonderer) and [WacheyPena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WacheyPena/works) for helpfully letting me talk excessively about it.


	2. Returning the Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He watched wordlessly for a while, but eventually gave in to confusion. This really wasn’t football. “Explain this shit,” he demanded, waving down at the rink, where one guy was being whaled on by another while in possession of a deadly weapon._
> 
> _He got a head tilt in reply. “You don’t like it?”_
> 
> _Mick snorted. “You kidding? I love it. I just don’t get it.” He grinned as another incomprehensible fight broke out._
> 
> _Len laughed, with a rare, real smile, and Mick tried not to notice that it transformed his face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end for additional chapter content warning.

**6 Years Ago**

_Len ascended the stairs, panting under the weight of a box._

_“What the hell is_ in _this one?”_

_“Books,” Lisa said, appearing in the doorway of her dorm room. She leaned on the doorpost, arms folded and a grin on her face, watching him struggle without offering to help._

_He groaned as he dropped the box on the floor by the empty bookshelf. “Next time, more boxes, less books.”_

_“Fewer.”_

_He glared at her. “Been here less than a day and she’s already talking like a college student.”_

_She laughed, slapping him on the arm. “That’s the last of them?”_

_“Yup.”_

_They fell silent, Len pretending to fix a loose nail in the door, Lisa scuffing her foot against the edge of the carpet where it was coming away from the wall._

_“Lenny—” Lisa started, then seemed to think better of it._

_He raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes?”_

_She shrugged. “You gonna be okay?”_

_“Yes, Lisa. I’m nearly thirty. I’ve learnt how to take care of myself by now.”_

_“Oh, please. Yesterday you burnt toast then went without dinner because you didn’t have any other food and I guess you just forgot supermarkets exist.”_

_He made a face at her. “I could have called for takeout.”_

_“Great,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Now I’m actually worried you’re gonna die of malnutrition.”_

_With a half-smile, he bumped his shoulder against hers. “What about you, hmm?”_

_Gesturing at the boxes of books, she said, “I think they’ll keep me busy.” She looked up at him, a rare spark of vulnerability in her eyes. “Hey… Thanks, Lenny.”_

_“Please. You’re mostly on a scholarship. I’ll barely even be helping out.”_

_They both pretended she didn’t need to contradict him._

_One emotionally stunted Snart family goodbye later, he drove the 200 miles home to an empty house. He tried not to look at his own ‘Introduction to Engineering’ course books, abandoned and wasting space in his bookcase._

* * *

 

**Now**

A week or so later, closing the door on his return from a liquor store run at midnight, Len’s ears were assaulted by the sound of something being thrown at the wall. Followed by swearing.

“Right. _Those_ thin walls,” he muttered. He picked up his newly-acquired six pack and went to knock on the door of apartment 17.

Mick slammed the door open, and it collided with the adjacent wall. His face was set in what Len was starting to realize was his quintessential scowl. At the sight of Len, though, he broke into a smile that looked really good on him. “Hey, New Guy!”

Len held up the six pack, and Mick’s smile widened as he waved Len in. Taking a single step inside, Len stopped. The place was even smaller than his, which he would have thought impossible. The main room was mostly kitchen, and every surface was covered—in cooking equipment, dirty dishes, packages of half-eaten food. The table, shoved against the one wall not piled high with boxes, was old and grimy. A single lightbulb hung unshaded from the ceiling.

Mick dropped his eyes to the dingy floor. “Uh, yeah. Sorry about the mess.”

“Not a problem,” Len said, sitting down at the kitchen table and shoving a haphazard pile of books out of his way. “So. What did you break?”

Mick slid into the chair next to him and pointed at the cup, broken in pieces by the wall. “Got mad.”

“You don’t say.” Len pushed a beer towards him, leaning forward to read the titles of the workbooks. “Firefighter exams?” He arched an eyebrow in Mick’s direction. _"Really?"_

Mick’s face lit up like a fire. Len allowed himself just a moment to notice how much he appreciated that expression on him. “Volunteer firefighter. To start with.”

“They do _know_ you’re a…?” He let the thought hang between them—and when the fuck did he get squeamish about words?

“Pyro?” Mick raised an amused eyebrow. “Kinda hard to miss, with the arson history.” He rocked back in his chair, looking at the beer in his hand. “So… I get parole out of juvie, right, and they only put me in community service at a fire station. ‘Course, they didn’t let me anywhere near fires. Wanted me to see _how arson_ _impacts the community_ yada yada.”

Len raised an eyebrow. “Did it work?”

Mick shrugged. “Talked them into letting me take the firefighter training, after a lot of years. So, I guess?” He shifted his focus to the table, scratching it with a fingernail.

“Ah.” Len nodded at the books. “And how’s it going?”

Mick snorted and slapped the open book in front of him. “Three years later, I ain’t seen active service yet. GED took a couple of years. Now training. Can’t start firefighting until—well. There’s a psych eval.” He glanced up at Len, like he was thinking about saying something else, but fell quiet.

Len hummed, leaning across the table and lightly resting his hand on one of the books. “What you having trouble with?”

“The math. Some of the decisions stuff. I could do it in the field, but…” He trailed off, staring glumly at the workbook open in front of him.

“Too theoretical?” Len suggested, and Mick nodded. Rapping the fingers of both hands across the table a few times, Len said, “You know, I could really go for a burger right now. You want one?”

Mick glanced up, probably at the non-sequitur. “I guess I could eat. What—”

“Good,” Len interrupted, getting up. “Won’t be long.”

Less than ten minutes later he dropped a bag of Big Belly Burger on the table in front of a now confused-looking Mick. “Right. A beer and a burger, and in exchange you let me help you study. Deal?”

Mick blinked at him, but he was already pulling food out of the bag. “I think you’re confused about what a _deal_ is.”

He put his elbow down on the table, resting his chin on the back of his hand and smirking. “You’re charming when you’re grumpy.”

Mick squinted at him for a minute. “I’m always grumpy.” He shrugged. “Well, long as I get to eat first.” He took a bite out of his burger, his face relaxing into wide-eyed euphoria. “ _Ah_. Good.” Len waited till Mick wasn’t looking, then risked a laugh under his breath at that.

The beer and food seemed to help Mick’s confidence. This, Len observed with only a little discomfort, led to questions. “And you work where?” he was asking. Len gestured at the bag of food, and Mick paused, his burger halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Big Belly, daytimes—a few shifts a week. Saints and Sinners, most nights.”

( _Tell him,_ said an irritating voice in Len’s head. He ignored it.)

Nodding in commiseration, Mick said, “Sounds like as many as hours as me.”

Len picked up one of the books in front of him. “What else am I gonna do?” The familiar stab of failure and uselessness ran through him like a shock of cold. After a mildly uncomfortable silence, he shrugged and said, “Did two years of an engineering degree.”

Eyebrows crept up Mick’s head. “You didn’t finish?”

“Lacked the money.” Then, staring harder at the book in proficient indifference, “And the motivation, apparently.”

Mick was still barrelling on, though, hardly stopping talking between bites. And—oh, he was onto the subject of the past. “So. Burger joints, huh? Guess that deal they offered you back in juvie really set you on the straight and narrow.”

Len continued to pour through the book. “Was worth it.” He fell pointedly silent, then glanced up to see Mick looking at him intently, and gave in. “I’m putting my sister through college. She’s nearly done with her Master’s. Job lined up and everything.” At least one member of the family was headed for success, the treacherous little voice in his head reminded him. “So, yeah. Burgers and bartending, for now.” Then he sat back in his seat, folding his arms, and looked Mick square in the eyes, noting the way he squirmed at that. “And what put _you_ on the straight and narrow, Mick?”

Something like old pain flickered across Mick’s face. “Guess you remember my sob story from juvie.”

Len tented his fingers on the table in front of him, watching Mick through them. “Responsible for a fire in your own house, is all I recall. Other arson stuff. Someone died?” He didn’t answer, and Len’s eyes followed Mick’s fingers tapping a nervous beat on the underside of the table. “System actually reformed you, huh?”

“Wasn’t really that,” Mick said, after a moment. “There was people who needed me. Y’know, after the fire.”

Len arched an eyebrow. “Fair.” He recognized the motivation—and that it had only lasted so long for him. His brow furrowing, he flicked through the book in his hand again.

Mick glanced up. “Got a sister and two brothers. Donny’s younger, still at home. I go over, keep a bit of an eye on him.

Len took careful heed of the look that briefly crossed Mick’s face. “That a problem?”

Mick shrugged, glaring at his fries. “My dad’s—well. Better’n he used to be, but not always a great guy.”

“Ah.” He caught Mick’s cold gaze with his own for a moment. “…Yeah.”

“And I got—” He paused. “Other people to think about,” he finished after a second. Len waited for him to explain, but he never did, breaking the ensuing silence with a cough instead. “So, you gonna help me with this shit, or what?”

“Right.” Len reached for one of the practice test books. “Let’s see if we can’t crack the code to this thing.”

Two hours later, they were working from actual flashcards. Len had scribbled on the cut-up backs of cereal boxes with an expert drawing hand. “Good to know my failed degree wasn’t totally wasted,” he quipped, an edge of bitterness in it. He lifted up a diagram of two buildings, one on fire. “Okay. Who would you rescue first?”

Mick peered at it, pointing. “For starters, that guy would already be dead.”

With a glare, Len turned the card around and held it against the original picture in the book. “How’d you figure?”

Mick raised an amused eyebrow. “He’s literally on fire. Up to his head.”

“It’s a good drawing!” Len protested.

“Of the buildings and shit, sure.” Mick raised an eyebrow. “You could’ve been an engineer.”

“Funny,” Len griped.

Mick grinned, grabbing a handful of chips from the bag on the table, and pointed at the card. “And the fire hydrant wouldn’t be there. And you put those buildings too far apart. Can’t jump between ‘em. And—”

 _"Fine,"_  Len interrupted with a drawl. He glared at the card, then made a face at him. “Can we pretend the guy’s _not_ on fire?”

Mick’s eyebrows bounced as he took a swig from his beer bottle. “I can’t unsee it.”

Len attempted an icy stare at him. “You’re gonna make me draw it out again, aren’t you, you bastard?”

“Yup.” Mick’s self-satisfied smile was—adorable.

Sighing and cutting out another piece of cereal box, Len drew the diagram again, a little more lazily this time. “Better?”

Mick was already guffawing, in a full-body laugh that was too endearing. “Is that a _horse?"_

“It’s a dog, you freak.” Len sighed dramatically, and Mick’s grin grew wider.

Len really liked that smile.

* * *

 

It was nice, having Len next door. It had been a long time since Mick had had a friend. Their mutually full schedules didn’t seem to keep them from drifting in and out of each other’s apartments. Over the next couple of months, Mick would often open the door late at night to find Len leaning against the door frame, pretending he just landed there. Always full of excuses about how hyped he was after a hellish shift at Saints and Sinners, and did Mick want a beer or some help studying? Len never seemed to object to Mick escaping to his apartment, either, no matter how keyed up or low Mick was.

One night, still shaking after a panic attack, Mick stumbled out and towards Len’s place—it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go—only to find Len already hovering in the hall between their apartments. One look at him, and Len shepherded him into apartment 19.

“Sorry,” Mick gasped, once his breath had started to come back to him. Once he’d had a minute to process the shame.

Len had his hand on Mick’s shoulder. The thought ran through his fuzzy mind that he didn’t remember either of them ever touching the other before. It had been a while since anyone had touched him at all. “It’s okay,” Len said, though he was clearly having trouble looking at Mick. (Right, because making him uncomfortable was a great way to keep a friend.) “You… want a beer? Or is that a bad idea?”

Mick shook his head, flexing and unflexing an unsteady hand. “If you’ve got coffee…”

Len had a cup in Mick’s hands so fast, he wondered if he’d lost some time.

He flopped back on the couch a bit. “Sorry,” he said again—and for fuck’s sake, he didn’t apologize. This was the most he’d done it since he’d been married. He couldn’t meet Len’s eyes. He’d soon figure out what a spineless piece of shit Mick was, now that he’d seen yet more of his crap.

There was a thumb stroking ever so lightly along the fingers of his right hand hand, where it was resting on the middle of the couch. He looked up into Len’s strangely unguarded face, full of worry he didn’t deserve, and managed a shaky smile.

He slept on Len’s couch that night, and woke up to find Len making him breakfast. Again.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully, like they just did this every day. Which didn’t sound so bad, now that Mick thought about it.

Avoiding Len’s eyes, he went down to get his mail. He collected Len’s from his box with its busted lock too, in the best approximation of _thank you_ he could manage. “Your mailbox lock is still broken,” he grunted. “Oh, and it still says Wynters.” He passed the pile of mail across the breakfast table. “I guess that was the guy who lived here for two weeks before you did?”

Len grunted vague assent. Mick stopped, staring at the space at the table that was fast becoming Mick’s place, around the corner from Len’s. There was a plate of eggs and bacon sitting there. Len was reading yesterday’s paper, one leg casually hiked over the other, as though Mick hadn’t fallen apart right here the night before. It was all so normal—and disconcerting—that Mick thought about walking out.

He stayed and had breakfast with his friend, instead.

While they were eating, Len said the incomprehensible sentence: “So. Hockey today?”

Mick frowned. “Huh?”

Reaching across the table, Len grabbed an envelope and pulled out two tickets, dropping one by Mick’s plate. “Hockey. I was going to take Lisa, but apparently she’s decided to prioritize her _new girlfriend_ over family.” Mick snorted at Len’s exaggerated show of disappointment. “So, you wanna join me?”

It only occurred to Mick half way through the hockey game that other people would probably call this a date. It also occurred to him that they weren’t other people.

The stadium was a spectacle, bright and loud, and Mick’s eyes kept drifting to the ground, at first. But Len was a steadying anchor against the crowd, occasionally clapping Mick lightly on the back when he noticed. If his hand stayed there a little longer than expected, Mick was fine with that.

He watched wordlessly for a while, but eventually gave in to confusion. This really wasn’t football. “Explain this shit,” he demanded, waving down at the rink, where one guy was being whaled on by another while in possession of a deadly weapon.

He got a head tilt in reply. “You don’t like it?”

Mick snorted. “You kidding? I love it. I just don’t get it.” He grinned as another incomprehensible fight broke out.

Len laughed, with a rare, real smile, and Mick tried not to notice that it transformed his face.

At some point, Len procured the biggest soda Mick had ever seen, handing it to him with a smirk and a flourish. Then he settled back in his seat, occasionally jumping up to rattle at the railings and yell at the players. Charmed, Mick snuck glances at him from behind his program for the rest of the game.

Afterwards, Len took him to a new bar (“Not Saints and Sinners—hate going there on my day off”), and they sat in companionable silence for a while.

“Okay for bar food,” Mick observed, after a while, as he dug into a triple cheeseburger.

“High praise from you.” At Mick’s eyebrow raise, Len said, “Mick, you’ve been feeding me the best food I’ve ever eaten, these past couple of months. My sister’s so happy I’m no longer in imminent danger of starvation.” Mick peered at him for signs of sarcasm, but Len was looking at him with unusual sincerity.

Mick grimaced back. “Remember the swill we got in juvie?”

Len snorted. “How could I forget? Even after twenty-one years. Don’t think I ate for a week when I first got there.”

“Well. You couldn’t get out of _bed_ for the first week,” Mick said, aiming for wry humor.

He missed, apparently. There was a moment of silence, Len’s face doing his cold stare-into-the-middle-distance thing. “Well, aren’t you a comedian,” he drawled.

It felt like he’d been hit, the sensation an old companion, familiar from every mistake he’d ever made. Cursing himself for an idiot, he realized this was the longest conversation about juvie they’d had since they’d met again—and why. He was quick to change the subject, the guilt sitting old and heavy in his gut.

* * *

Len hadn’t realized how late they’d stayed out, but when they made it back to their apartment building he was ready to drop. He paused at the door to apartment 17, steadying Mick as he stumbled a bit. “Woah, buddy,” he said with a laugh. “You maybe gotta watch how many of those you drink.”

“Don’t got no tolerance now,” Mick mumbled, slurring. “Not doing nothing fun anymore. No drinking, no fire…”

Len narrowed his eyes at the short-lived rant, but didn’t comment. “So,” he said, instead. “Guess this is your stop.”

Mick looked up at him with a half-smile that, on anyone else, Len might have called shy. “I had fun,” he said, a strange note in his voice.

“Good.” 

“We do this again soon, yeah?”

He coughed out a laugh. “You live across the hall, Mick. We’ll be seeing each other again.”

Mick raised his eyebrows at him, unimpressed. “You know what I mean, asshole.”

Len grinned. “Yeah.” He suddenly found himself more nervous than he’d been in years, and he shoved the sensation away. “And, yeah, we should do this again.” They shared a glance, something like understanding, even if Len guessed neither of them was sure what they were understanding yet.

Chuckling, Mick opened the door, Len wandering in behind him in a way that was becoming increasingly familiar. He saw Mick stop up short before he saw the reason why.

There was a woman on the sofa, reading one of Mick’s books. She was dressed unexceptionally enough, long curls falling over a black leather jacket, but something in her posture communicated formidable power. “Hello, Mick,” she said, her tone kind but hesitant.

Mick was gripping the door handle so hard his hand was turning white. “Hi, Amaya.”

“I guess you forgot?” The look she gave Mick spoke of steadfast forgiveness over layers of disappointment, and Len frowned.

Mick eyes dropped to the floor. “Yeah. I—sorry. I forgot.”

Behind Mick, Len coughed. Mick whirled around with a bewildered look, as though he’d forgotten he was there. Then he turned back. “Right, yeah. Len, uh, this is Amaya.”

Striding forward and offering his hand, he gave her what he hoped was a friendly smile, though he was mostly sizing her up. She was giving very little away, though. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” was her reply, even as she was looking at Mick over his shoulder.

He let go and turned around to look at Mick, who was staring at the floor. “Well. I’ll get out of your way, then.”

Mick was silent, not returning Len’s glance as he closed the door. Len stared at the crooked number 17 on Mick’s door for a while afterwards. “Hmm,” he grunted eventually, turning around and heading into his own place, with a final glance over his shoulder at the apartment opposite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional content warning for chapter: Mick has a brief panic attack, while Len helps. If you want to skip it, it starts with "One night, still shaking after a panic attack..." and finishes with "...managed a shaky smile."
> 
> Mick will have at least one more panic attack over the course of this story--none will be particularly graphic, but I'll warn for them all.


	3. Open Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len discovers a few new things about Mick, some of which he wishes he hadn't.
> 
>  _Hope you having a good nap I know you had a late shift_  
>  Len sighed, sat up and replied.  
>  _I’m having a fantastic nap, thanks, you shit._  
>  A pause, then—  
>  _Sorry :DDD_  
>  It surprised him, somehow, to learn that Mick Rory understood the subtleties of emoticon use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief, mild panic attack--details in endnotes.

**_3 Years Ago_ **

_The ice cream parlor was in a forgotten corner of the mall. Mick had crammed himself onto one of the plastic seats, occasionally glancing up at shoppers, mostly staring at the ground. Finally, a woman and a little boy rounded the corner, and Mick’s whole world came into view. The little boy let go of his mother’s hand and ran up to the table. “Hey, buddy!” Mick said, getting up to hug him._

_Catching up with her son, Amaya sighed. “Ethan, please put your shoes back on.” She smiled up at him. “Hi, Mick.”_

_“But I don’t wanna wear shoes,” Ethan griped, squirming out of Mick’s awkward hug._

_He gave Amaya a strained smile as he leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. Turning back to Ethan he said, “Put your shoes back on. We can go up and order together.”_

_It was always like the sun coming out when Ethan smiled. Mick didn’t understand it now any better than the first time it happened, but there it was. “Can I order on my own, daddy?”_

_“Sure,” Mick said, even as they both looked at Amaya for confirmation. “The counter’s right there,” he reassured her. Slipping into dad role again was far too easy and comfortable. (But not safe.)_

_“Oh, go on then,” she laughed. “I’ll be watching for when you get finished, okay?”_

_Ethan accepted his shoes back from his mother, slipping them on, and bounced up to the counter with them hanging off his feet. “I’m gonna get chocolate!”_

_Mick felt a fond laugh rumbling up from inside him. Then he caught Amaya’s eye, and looked away._

_“We need to talk, Mick,” she said. She looked sad, and he swallowed._

_“Not right now, Amaya,” he pleaded, and why couldn’t he have one day with his son before his world came crashing down around him? "When you come back on Sunday, I’ll—"_

_“He can’t spend the weekend with you, Mick,” she interrupted. “I’m sorry.”_

_Of course. He looked away. “Who told you?”_

_“Social worker. Were_ you _going to?”_

_She was still looking at him with the kind of care that he didn’t deserve—and for fuck’s sake, what was wrong with her? He bit down the rage that bubbled up inside him. It was just more proof that she wasn’t wrong. "Yes." He stared at his little finger where it was twitching against the table. "I don’t know."_

_After a second, there was a hand on his shoulder, and he met Amaya’s worried eyes. There was no judgment there—just a sadness that twisted and twisted inside him. “You put a guy in the_ hospital _, Mick.”_

_There was nothing to say. She wasn’t wrong._

_He couldn’t look at her, even when she moved her hand down to cover his, and he felt his fingers stilling under hers. (Safe. Not like him.) “I know you’re trying,” she said. “Really, Mick, I do. I’m so proud of you for how hard you’ve been working. But—” She shook her head. “I’ll be right there, honey,” she called over to the counter. She got up, her eyes still on Mick. “This is really serious.”_

_Mick glanced over at the counter. Ethan was bouncing, trying to reach the empty ice cream cups. Mick was about to dart up to help, and then a server reached down with three cups. His tiny, fragile son reached up to take them, then looked behind himself and grinned at Mick._

_He dragged his gaze back to Amaya. “You know before when I said I wanted to do just supervised visits? I think I wanna do that. Just for a while, you know.” He trailed off at the end, till he could barely hear himself._

_She sat back down on the edge of her seat. “Mick, we’ve been over this. I know you’d never hurt him. It’s not about that. I—”_

_“That’s the thing, Amaya,” he interrupted. He was still staring up at Ethan. “I don’t know that.”_

_She returned her hand to his shoulder, but her attention was already mostly shifted to Ethan. “Of course you do.”_

_“You really gonna take that chance? With your son?” His stomach clenched, but he forced himself not to look away._

_She stared at him for a second. He saw the moment when she gave up on him. She shook her head sadly and disappeared into the line. Mick sat at the empty table under the stuttering lights—flicker, buzz, flicker—and closed his eyes against them._

_A little voice shook him out of it. “Daddy, you didn’t say, so I got you mint. You got mint when we went to the beach, remember?” Ethan hopped up on the table next to him, already covered in chocolate._

_Mick forced a smile and took the ice cream cup with shaking hands. “Yeah, buddy. I remember.”_

* * *

 

**Now**

Len didn’t see Mick for a while after the odd incident with the woman. They passed each other once in the hallway, but Mick just glowered at the floor and let him go by without a word. And like fuck was Len going to go crawling to Mick just to satisfy his own curiosity. So he stayed away, and didn’t hear squat from Mick from two weeks.

One Saturday, his afternoon nap was interrupted by a buzzing sound.

And another one.

By the third, he was groaning, rolling over, and reaching across the nightstand for his phone.

_7pm, Barker and Fifth_

_Coffee_

_Building’s called Advocacy for Kids_

He was just puzzling that last one out, when another buzz almost made him drop the phone.

_Hope you having a good nap I know you had a late shift_

Len sighed, sat up and replied.

_I’m having a fantastic nap, thanks, you shit._

A pause, then—

_Sorry :DDD_

It surprised him, somehow, to learn that Mick Rory understood the subtleties of emoticon use.

Red and white streetlights were reflecting across the wet street as Len strode up the steps into the ‘Advocacy for Kids’ building. It was almost indistinguishable from the townhouses that surrounded it, and he paused on the first step to check he hadn’t gone wrong—but, no, the sign was there, in colorful graphics styled as handwriting.

Inside, the whole of the lower floor was laid out like a little library, bookshelves and colorful displays all around the open walls. In one corner, there was a noisy little horde of preschoolers playing with toys. In another, some older children were more quietly reading Braille books.

Len spotted Mick near the back of the room. He was with another volunteer, both sitting a cautious distance from a little girl reading to a black Labrador. Books and cushions were strewn on the floor around them. Mick had a careful hold on the dog’s leash, listening quietly enough not to disturb either the girl or the dog.

A woman with her hair in a long braid approached Len. “Can I help you?”

He turned slightly and attempted a smile. “Just waiting for him,” he said, nodding in Mick’s direction. His voice, he found, was low and quiet in a sympathetic response to the quiet environment. Well, other than the irritating toddlers.

She beamed. “Oh! You’re Mick’s friend.” She turned her smile in Mick’s direction, and Len followed her gaze. “He doesn’t come in on a schedule, you know,” she said, almost conspiratorially. “Just when he wants to. But always when the kids who read to the animals are here.”

Len, who was never one not to take advantage of a loose tongue, asked casually, “When did he start volunteering here?”

“A couple of years ago?” She nodded at the dog in his red coat. “Therapy dog. Some of the kids are too shy to read—or speak—to the helpers, but they’ll read to animals.”

The little girl was reading at barely above a whisper, leaning in deep towards the dog. Every so often she would stop and bury her head in its fur. Mick was managing to keep tabs on her without making the eye contact that she was clearly trying to avoid. As she finished the little book she was reading, he was already reaching over to a little pile of books on the floor, passing her another one. She broke into the tiniest of smiles, Mick matching it with his own reserved, friendly smile—one Len hadn’t seen before. Then she leant back in towards the dog and began to read _sotto voce_ again.

“Olive,” Mick said to her after a minute, quietly. “I think your mom’s here.” He put out a hand to request the book, but not too close to her. “You wanna show me where you’re gonna put that away?”

She clasped the book to her chest, eyeing him a little warily. “I’m supposed to do the putting the book away myself, Mick.”

“Ah,” Mick said seriously, “but there ain’t no rule says you can’t get a little help from me and Jenny.”

She nodded, taking the dog’s leash as he held it out to her. “It goes under B, for The Bear,” she said to the dog. “Come on, Jenny.”

“Hey,” Mick said, “that’s good remembering.”

Len leant back against a bare patch of wall, his eyes flitting between skeptical glances at Mick and glaring at the floor. Well, if Mick was going to spend two weeks ignoring him, he was going to be petty.

Ten minutes later, as the last of the kids were busied out by parents, Mick caught sight of Len and smiled. “Hey. I didn’t know if you’d come.”

Len raised his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, fiddling with the pens on the desk. “You called, I came. Coffee, then?”

Mick nodded, grabbing a wallet and keys from a box at the reception desk as he passed it. “Diner down the road is good.”

“So. Didn’t tell me about this,” Len said, as they stepped out onto the street. The comment may have come out more barbed than he’d intended, but he didn’t bother to soften it.

Mick gave him a wary glance. “Well, now I did.”

“Hmm. Not what I’d expect you to do on Saturday evenings,” Len drawled. “Awfully upstanding of you. Very ‘responsible citizen.’”

Mick stopped dead, spinning around to get close up to Len. Under the flickering streetlight, Mick’s features stood out in incensed red. “If you got something to say, fucking say it.”

Len folded his arms defensively across himself. “I don’t. Just didn’t expect to find Mick Rory working with _underprivileged kids_.”

Mick’s glare got nastier. “I ain’t no saint, Lenny. And those kids don’t need your pity.”

Len matched him scowl for scowl, staring him down. “Something I said?”

In reply, he muttered something Len couldn’t make out and turned away.

Looking just ahead, Len spotted the diner and shoved Mick to the right and through the door. Mick blinked under the bright lights, turned a brief questioning look on Len, then shrugged and sat. He was quiet while Len ordered coffee.

With a sudden stab of mild regret, Len couldn’t stand the strained silence anymore. “Talk,” he said. “Clearly I said the wrong thing.” At Mick’s raised eyebrow, he sighed and added, “I’d—like to not do it again. If it’s something that matters to you.” He shrugged, flexing the fingers he realised he’d been holding in a fist.

Mick stared at him for a moment, a struggle playing out across his face. “Olive didn’t talk for months after she started there,” he said at last, with the hint of a smile. “She says whole sentences now.” He looked at Len like he was puzzling something out. “They had a sign out front for volunteers one day. I had—some extra time on my hands.”

Len nodded, forcing himself not to interrupt, even when the tide of the silence rose again.

Mick shrugged. “Guess I just would have liked something like that when I was a kid. And...”

“Yes?” Len prompted, giving in to the urge.

“My kid would have liked it, too.”

Len sat back and regarded Mick, all shaking hands and uncertain glances. "Your…" The pieces fell into place. "The woman at the apartment. She was your ex-wife."

Mick nodded. “You’d like her.” He was looking at Len like one of them was about to run away. Or both of them.

Len was counting the checks on the cheap plastic tablecloth. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” The edge in his voice was back, but he didn’t care. “You could even have told me earlier.”

He was so focused on how pissed off he was, that at first he didn't notice Mick turning a little grey, gripping the table in both hands.

“Hey.” Len eased up on the sarcastic tone. “Mick,” he said, as gently as he could manage, when he got no reply. “Breathe.” And damn, he _wasn’t good at this_ —but it had helped before. He reached out his hand hesitantly, placing it lightly over Mick’s.

After another minute, Mick cracked a shaky smile at Len’s stare. “Hi.”

“ _Mick,”_ Len sighed. “Talk to me.”

He snorted a laugh. “I'm shit at that.”

“Can’t be any worse than me,” Len said, smirking. He waved at the waitress, who had been avoiding their table, but now started to make her way over. “I need a beer.”

He decided not to argue when Mick replied, “Get me one too. Special occasion.” Len raised an eyebrow at him. “My kid turned eight today. And I—” He visibly swallowed. “I haven’t seen him in two years.”

 _Right. Be less of an asshole._ He schooled his eyes away from Mick’s gaze and down at the table. “You wanna tell me about it?”

“Could take a while.”

Len nodded at the table. “Got nowhere else to be.”

Mick nodded, leaning back hard into the back of his chair. “I was real young when I met her. She was a volunteer at the fire station too.” He grinned. “She volunteered out of the goodness of her heart, unlike some assholes I could mention.”

“Hey. That’s my friend you’re shitting on,” Len said, smirking.

Mick’s grin softened into a gentle smile. “She was amazing. Never knew what she saw in me. Way too good for this thug, even before she started going places.” He lapsed into silence as the beers arrived, taking a huge swig from his bottle as soon as they were alone at the table again. “I was real damaged goods for a few years after juvie, Len. I was—still dangerous.” He coughed a caustic laugh. “Not that I ain’t now, but...”

He was staring at his hands. Where his sleeves were riding up, Len could see where the unblemished skin on his wrists became faded scar tissue. He made another attempt at bringing Mick back to the present. “So what happened?”

Mick shook his head. “I told Amaya I was no good for her. She said she’d make her own decisions. She always had a lot of faith in me.” He turned his beer bottle around and around on the table. “She shouldn’t have.”

The door of the diner _dinged_ as a family walked in. Mick’s eyes followed the kids, a brother and a sister, all the way to their table. They were play-fighting over a game console.

“And you had a kid, hmm?”

Mick was quiet for a minute. “Yeah. Ethan. I, um—I got in some trouble.” He swigged another drink, holding onto his bottle with a tight grip after he was done. “Repeatedly. Taking shit out on poor bastards who happened to be around, that kinda thing.” Len’s look probably spoke for itself, because Mick returned it with one of panic. “Oh god, no. Not him. I’d never have hurt them. But…” And apparently he couldn’t look Len in the eye anymore, gazing back at the table. “I got a lot of problems, you know?”

“Yeah,” Len said quietly, drawing the word out.

Mick looked up sharply. “I’d never hurt him,” he repeated, and there was a terrible note of doubt in his voice.

Len nodded slowly. “So why don’t you believe that?” At Mick’s silence, he tried again. “Why haven’t you seen him in two years?”

He was quiet for even longer this time, staring dejectedly at his bottle. “Maybe I’m a coward,” he said at last. Then before Len had a chance to try to figure that out, he added, “I was waiting till I was a firefighter. Had something real—y’know, stable—to give him, but…”

It sounded like every deadbeat father’s excuse Len had ever heard, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he said, “It’s none of my business, but—I’ve known some shitty fathers.” He was fighting the old rage just to breathe, but he swallowed it back. Not Mick's fault. “And maybe I don’t know shit, but, well. You’re not like that.”

Mick winced and began tapping out a pattern on the floor with his foot. “He deserves better,” he muttered.

“Well, he doesn’t have better.” Len tilted his head. “You’re the only father he gets."

Mick smiled wryly. “Amaya’s been saying that.” He looked down at his twisting hands. “You think less of me?”

Len shook his head slowly. He let out a long, thoughtful sound. Something else was occurring to him. “And it took you this long to tell me because—what, you thought I wouldn’t want anything to do with you anymore?”

Mick frowned. “I ain’t a good guy, Len. I was no good for her or my kid. I won’t be for you.”

“That so?” Mick didn’t seem to notice Len’s hand on his arm, at first, until he looked up in surprise. “Let me make up my own mind on that one.” Len smirked as Mick’s nervous foot-tapping ramped up to a faster pace. “Are we getting into things we haven’t talked about yet?”

Mick suddenly looked very interested in the label on his bottle, peeling it away at the corners. “I don’t know what we are,” he said slowly. “But I like us.”

“I like us too,” Len said. And, ah—it was time for this conversation. He frowned, examining his nails. “I don’t do sex, Mick. If you were looking for that…”

“Oh,” Mick said. “Ace?”

Len paused, trying not to gape at him. “Yeah,” he managed eventually. “What, you too?”

Mick shook his head. “Nah. I’m, um—aro, I guess. Don’t do any of that mushy stuff. It took some figuring out, with Amaya. But she was a good one.”

Len smiled. “So? We do this differently.”

“You still wanna do… this?”

As Len shrugged, his smirk was back. “Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, I just told you I had a son I didn’t tell you about, and that I left him.”

Len hmm’d. “Well. We’ve all done shit we need to fix. What matters is what you do about it next.” Mick was quiet for another protracted silence there, until Len coughed. “Didn’t mean to be a jerk about the reading thing.”

“Yeah, you did.” Mick had lifted his menu in front of his face and was stewing behind it, but only a bit. “I want an ice cream sundae,” he announced. “With a sparkler on top.” He dropped the menu and glared at Len. “It’s on you, asshole.”

Schooling his face into an expression of solemn deference, Len nodded. “Got it.”

At the arrival of an overloaded chocolate sundae, Mick went wide-eyed at the sparkler. It was a look reminiscent of his absent expression on the rare occasion when he would sneak out and watch a fire in juvie. He said almost mournfully, “It’s never gonna catch. Looks like it could, though. That’s nice.” Len’s confusion must have been apparent, because Mick added softly, “Not supposed to look at fire except on the schedule.”

Len decided to risk it. With a finger in the air, he said, “One more personal question, then.” Mick snorted, then nodded, his gaze returning to the last fizzes and sparks of the tiny proto-fire. “Do you miss it?”

A thoughtful raised eyebrow. “Fire? Yeah, sometimes.” His eyes flickered to the ceiling. “There were things worth trying to live different for.” After a second, he added, “People. You know.”

A witty reply caught in Len’s throat. He wasn’t sure he did know.

Mick met Len’s eyes for a moment, and then he looked away at his sundae. Picking up his spoon, he shoved a huge helping of chocolate ice cream topped with three kinds of candy into his mouth, and his head lolled back. “Oh my god,” he groaned.

That time, Len couldn’t suppress his laugh, leaning back in his chair, arms lazily folded.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” Mick said, though a mouthful of ice cream. Len shook his head, content just to watch him enjoying himself, but Mick glared at him. “Can’t ever get you to eat.”

“I eat when you cook for me.”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure refusing to eat at someone’s else place unless you _bring your own veggies_ is the definition of control freakery,” he muttered.

Len shrugged. “Made my peace with being a control freak.”

Mick chuckled. Then he stared meaningfully at the sundae, and back at Len.

Sighing, Len picked up the second spoon, abandoned on the edge of the plate, and dug in. Just this once.

* * *

 

Mick ended up alone in his apartment the next day. One drink became four. Became thinking about fire. (Became thinking about the string of fuck-ups he’d left behind him. Became thinking about Ethan.)

A glance up at the door in the direction of apartment 19 shook him out of it. He was never sure of Len’s schedule at either of his jobs—Len wasn’t a sharing kind of guy—but he wasn’t home, and it was Saturday night. Saints and Sinners was a good bet. Mick grabbed his coat, letting the door swing shut behind him.

He hadn’t been to Saints in years, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was almost empty, apart from a couple of representatives of Central’s seedier underside, eating each other’s faces in the corner.

“I’m looking for Len,” he called from the door.

A woman looked up from the bar and squinted at him. “Who’s asking?”

“A friend.”

She held his gaze for a minute. Then, shrugging, she returned to cleaning. “He’s not here tonight.”

"Okay, but—"

“Hey,” she interrupted. “You tell strange people where _your_ co-workers are when they just turn up out of nowhere?”

He grunted and turned away.

And then he thought again, and sat down at the bar. “Whiskey,” he said.

She made a face at him. “Charming, aren’t you?”

Later, abandoning his car at the bar and staggering home on foot—Len would kill him if he drove drunk—he banged the door to the apartment building open so hard that it cracked little fault lines into the wall. He stopped, running his hand over them, a spiral of rage building upon rage at the sight.

He shuffled past the row of mailboxes on the wall as he neared the stairs. Len’s mailbox lock was still busted, because the jackass didn’t know how to fix it. Mick got out his screwdriver and pulled the door open, and a letter slid out onto the floor. Bending down to get it, he read “Lionel Wynters,” aloud. He looked up at the same last name, now half scratched off by vandals, on the mailbox.

Wheels were turning in his head, fuzzy with booze or not.

He put the letter back in the mailbox, and closed it.

As he passed apartment 19, he paused, his fist pulled back in an stalled knock. Then he dropped it, and stood there just thinking for a few minutes.

Then he went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put a bit of a deleted scene from this chapter [on tumblr here](https://sophiainspace.tumblr.com/post/177659714133/mending-wall-deleted-scene). More 'Mick reading to kids' fluff.
> 
> More of Amaya's side of this story will get told, but not from her own point-of-view—at least, not until I write the zamaya story I'm planning next in this 'verse. She will be a real character in this story. But, because it's a coldwave and a lot has to happen, she won't get her own POV yet. 
> 
> Mick has a very brief, mild panic attack in this chapter--to skip it, look for “He was so focused on how pissed off he was…” and you can rejoin at “Mick cracked a shaky smile at Len’s stare.”
> 
> Thanks once again to [Thette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thette/) for excellent beta reading.
> 
> This chapter again took some inspiration from an early conversation I had with youmakemesoangry and voiceofdragons. We wanted to see Mick volunteering to read with kids. Hope you weren't too disappointed by where it went, guys!


	4. Doing This Differently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mick and Len spend time together, and find they like it. But is something about to change that?

**_6 Years Ago_ **

_The apartment was… small._

_When he’d viewed it the week before, it had seemed snug, overfull with cozy furniture. Now empty, it was betraying all its old secrets, wherever sickly shafts of light cut in through grimy blinds and fell across the room. The wallpaper was yellowing in cupboard-shaped blocks, peeling away from the shabby walls. The countertops were a half-finished mess. A layer of dust coated every surface._

_He’d been in more cheerful accommodation in juvie._

_The door drifted shut behind him with a hollow thud. His feet echoed across bare floorboards—some missing, others with sharp, splintering edges. Not long ago he’d have been on his hands and knees fixing those in a moment—but no tiny feet would be running over them now._

_There was an old landline on a patch of bare drywall in the corner. He’d picked it up, listening to silence, before he noticed the cut line between the handset and the cradle. So much for calling Amaya and checking on his kid. He’d go out and get a cellphone in the morning, probably, with whatever money he could scrape together. His recent suspension for his latest assault charge was not helping there._

_He dropped his single bag in the middle of the floor._

_“Welcome home, Mick,” he muttered to no one._

* * *

**  
Now**

Suddenly it was like Len had entered the queerplatonic dating Olympics and was throwing himself, head first, into finding ways to “do this differently” that would work for both of them. Mick, meanwhile, sat back and watched with increasing amusement.

(“Queer _what now?_ ”

“Queerplatonic. Looked it up on the internet.”

“‘Course you did.”

“I mean, we don’t have to call it that if you don’t want—”

“Oh, we’re gonna. It’s perfect. Now shut up and watch your sharks.”

Okay, so it was a slightly longer conversation than that, but that was the jist.)

It started the week the entire building’s heating system failed. In the middle of winter.

Len made it very clear that he had lived through significantly worse and barely noticed, with many tragic war stories about life in even less well-maintained buildings than this one. So Mick was not amused when he discovered the little electric heater Len was hoarding under the sofa. On the evening of day three he couldn’t take it anymore, and fought his pride all the way to the door of apartment 19, wrapped up in three coats. “I fucking hate the cold.”

“You _do_ surprise me.”

He grunted and sprawled himself out on the couch. “Where’s the heater?”

“C’mon,” Len said with a laugh, beckoning.

_“Where?”_

“Warmest place in the apartment,” he replied, heading for the door at the end of the living room. Mick glowered at his back, but got up and trotted obediently behind him. They went down the little hallway to the tiny bedroom at the end, barely bigger than the queen bed at its center. Len hopped under the covers. “Get in,” he ordered.

Mick raised a hesitant eyebrow.

“You are _aware_ that beds aren’t just for sex, yes?” Len taunted, smirking. Mick snorted, but Len had already turned his attention to a corner of the blanket, brow furrowed. “It’s fine if you’d rather not.”

Mick shrugged and shook his head. “Just wanted to be sure…”

Rolling his eyes, Len said, “I’m literally inviting you in, Mick. Stop making it a thing.”

It was comfortable, like Mick belonged there. They fell into old stories, somehow. Mick started, with vibrant memories (of his sensible brothers and hotheaded sister, rarer stories of Ethan scattered between). A couple of beers later, these were tempered with more sombre tales (how his father never spoke to him again after the fire). A very laid-back Len—literally, draped against the headboard with an arm around Mick—produced an album of photos and told him about bringing up his sister. In some very cold apartments, apparently. When it got so chilly that they retreated under the blankets with a flashlight, Len smiled an _I’m going to tell you a secret_ smile at Mick. In a tone of something like wonder, he said, “Worth it. Only good thing I ever did.”

Later, at his usual insistence that Len needed better nutrition, they escaped to Mick’s for a hot meal. “I ain’t cooking here. I put one pot on your stove, the thing would fall apart. Bring the heater.”

They were developing a habit of eating in a companionable silence that Mick generally liked, but Len was even quieter than usual that night, clearly pretending he wasn’t worrying about something.

“Mick,” he said after a second.

Mick paused with a forkful of stew halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Something I wanna ask you.” The anxiety that suddenly churned in Mick’s stomach must have showed on his face—Len huffed a laugh and raised a hand. “Nothing bad.” He ran his fingers along the edge of the paper tablecloth that he always insisted on putting down, ever since Mick’s lousy table gave him splinters. “We said we were gonna do this differently.”

He put down his fork. “Ain’t that what we been doing?”

Len nodded, eyes wide at the table. “What if I said I wanted to do this differently… long-term? And that maybe you were the only person I wanted to do things differently… with.”

Mick snorted. “Oh god, Snart. And I thought _I_ was bad at talking. Have you ever said words in your life?” And then he processed what Len was saying. “Oh.” He sat back and didn’t answer for a good few seconds. (If asked if he was drawing out Len’s suffering, he’d have totally denied it.)

Him and Lenny against the world. Yeah, that sounded good.

Squirming into a wince, Len finally snapped. “Okay, that’s the smuggest grin I’ve ever seen, and I’ve looked in mirrors. Could you put me out of my misery and tell me if that’s a good ‘oh’?”

With a grin, Mick said, “Yeah, you clueless fucking nimrod. That’s kinda what I already thought we were doing.” He picked up his fork again. “Good to know.”

Len slowly raised his stare till it was directed at Mick, who just grinned back some more. “You fucking asshole,” Len muttered.

“So are you, partner.” Mick nodded at Len’s plate. “Eat your greens.”

“Shut up.”

Later, back in Len’s bed—well, it was still freezing—Mick said in a blanket-muffled voice, “I ain’t moving in, though. Your place is falling apart.”

Len chuckled. “Yours is a pigsty. Fortunately, I already know you _were_ born on a farm.” He shrugged, while Mick laughed. “Plus, you basically live here already.”

“And, I mean,” Mick yawned. “If I moved in, whose place would you bring vegetables to?”

“That was _two times.”_

Mick stuck his head out from under the blankets and grinned at him.

“…Three.”

* * *

Then there was the memorable Sunday, a few months later, when Mick woke up at 5 fucking a.m. to the death-knell of his phone. Mick knew it was a Sunday, because he hadn’t had a weekend off in months, and he had been very enthusiastic about sleeping late and doing a lot of nothing. He was thinking about extending _nothing_ into _watching a football game and grilling burgers on the fire escape_ , but that was all. So, when his phone rang and it was still dark out, he was all ready to throw the damn thing at the wall, until he saw Len’s name on the screen.

“You’d better have a fucking good reason for this, you bastard,” he growled down the phone.

“Mmm. Call it revenge for waking me up from that nap.”

_"Months ago!”_

“Yes. Can you be ready in 45 minutes?” an apparently unfazed Len asked.

“No! Why?”

Len’s chuckle was disarming, and Mick really didn’t want to be disarmed at 5 a.m. on a Sunday. “You’ll see. It’ll be worth your while.”

“Why do I do a damn thing you tell me to?”

“Just trust me, Mick.”

As he half-heartedly tossed his phone onto the thinning carpet, it occurred to him that he did, in fact, trust the bastard. Well, that was new and terrifying.

“I _presume_ you’re gonna belt up,” Len said, as Mick slid into the driver’s seat of his Nissan Versa, with its peeling plastic revealing old foam beneath.

The car sputtered a few times before whining reluctantly to life. Mick scrunched his nose at the sound—he could do with a free day to tinker with it. “I wasn’t gonna drive without, asshole.”

Despite a nod of approval, the smug bastard apparently couldn’t help adding, “Just checking.” Mick rolled his eyes and just let him get the last word in.

Thirty-five quiet minutes later, they were past the city limits and driving into the countryside.

“Here,” Len said.

Mick blinked at the passing scenery, just visible on the unlit country road. Corn stalks loomed on either side of them. “It’s a field.”

“Aren’t you observant?”

Resisting the urge to slap that smirk off his face, Mick grunted and parked up next to the field, turning to Len as he switched off the engine. “Gonna let me in on the secret yet?”

The asshole smirked some more. “I assume you’ve noticed the date, Mick. Got here just in time for the peak of the Perseids.”

Mick felt himself breaking into a slow smile. Somewhere in him stirred an unfamiliar, half-forgotten feeling—like everything else he felt around Len. “You remembered.”

Len’s grin was self-satisfied, but there was a hint of something softer in it. “Yeah, buddy. I did.”

The mostly-empty field was surrounded by dark, distant trees that stretched eerily in the early morning shadows. Above them, the deep blue sky was fading into light at the edges. They settled into a spot, sitting side-by-side, Mick’s curled-up knees bumping against Len’s cross-legged ones. It was closer than Mick had let anyone get to him for a long time.

With the meteors flashing across the sky above them, Mick was only half there—but for better reasons than his usual dissociation. Half of him was back twenty-one years ago, Snart waking him with a finger across his lips, sneaking them out past an apathetic guard and into the yard in minutes. They’d had five stolen minutes of wonder under the shooting stars before they’d been dragged off to solitary in different directions. It had felt like the first kind thing anyone had done for him since the fire. (It would feel like the last kind thing anyone would do for him for years afterwards.)

Len’s voice trickled into his reverie, low and quiet, like he didn’t want to break the spell. “Happy birthday, Mick.”

Mick looked over at him. Len was sprawled out, leaning back on his hands so casually he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world—a carefully-constructed lie that Mick was only just beginning to see through. Mick wondered why he suddenly felt like he’d had three beers, a tremor in his hand and churning in his stomach. He forced himself to ask anyway, “Can I put my arm around you?”

Len chuckled. “Let’s see, shall we?”

So Mick did.

* * *

And there was the week Len wouldn’t stop asking him about fire. Things like _When’s the next time you’re due to light fires on your schedule?_ and _How does it work?_ and _Where do you go to do it?_

They were on the sofa in front of some terrible ‘90s comedy that Mick barely remembered and was quite glad he didn’t, when Len brought up the fire thing for about the fourth time. Mick rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Len. Ever heard of tact?” He turned to glance at him. “Never mind. I forgot who I was talking to.”

Len didn’t look away from the TV screen. “Just interested."

Mick eyed him warily. “I’m supposed to be supervised by my therapist, but she gave up trying to get me to do it all… clinical, a long time ago.” He shrugged. “I go down to the old railroad tracks outside of Keystone. Or the city dump. No one bothers me, either way.”

Len looked at him with that calculating look that meant he was planning something. Mick sighed and chose not to make a fuss. Best to let him get on with it.

Which was how they ended up standing in a pine forest in the fading light, two rusted tracks crisscrossing into the distance ahead of them, fallen timber lining the ditches on either side.

Casting Len a nervous glance, Mick found his familiar smirk more reassuring than it was probably meant to be. He was covering something up with it, though—scratching in the dirt with his foot. “I do the wrong thing?”

“You did ask if you could come,” Mick said, confused.

Len waved his hand around the timber surrounding them, in a wide sweep. “No, I meant, encouraging—this.”

Mick raised his eyebrows at the ground. “You ain’t encouraging.” He turned away, starting to gather branches. “You’re making it...”

“Yes?”

“Less of a dirty secret,” Mick muttered. The litany was starting up in his mind, appearing with mental diagrams of the anatomy and topography of the perfect fire. _Big logs first. Then big branches, stripped of leaves. Little branches. Kindling. Spark. And then—_

Len’s hand was on his back. Mick was huddled on the ground in front of an already-roaring blaze. “Oh, fuck,” he said, muffled, into his folded arms.

“Just stay with me,” Len murmured, and Mick nodded against his arms. He was shaking a bit, he realised. “You sure I didn’t do the wrong thing?” Len said again, in the same low, measured tone.

He shook his head, scoffing. “Ha. No.” Breathe in. Breathe out. “Don’t need no encouragement to be a monster.

“You’re not,” Len soothed, but Mick just shook his head again, quick and tight. But he was back, the familiar smell of smoke helping to ground him. Crouched next to him, his partner didn’t leave his side for a long time.

Much later, when the fire was burnt down to smoldering ashes, they found themselves sitting on the ground under a rising moon. (Mick made sure to roll his eyes at the sappy nonsense of that, but something about it seemed to make Len happy. And, well. Len made him happy.)

Staring into the embers as hard as Mick ever did, Len said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Can tell me to fuck off if you want.”

Mick shrugged. “We passed the point of personal questions being offensive way back, Lenny. And I’ll tell you to fuck off whenever you need it.” He chuckled under his breath.

“Can’t pretend I got any good reason for asking.”

“Fuck’s sake. Would you get on with the question?”

Eyes narrowing at the last of the flames, Len asked, “Who died in the fire?”

“Which one?” He knew exactly which one. 

Len tilted his head so far towards Mick it looked like it was about to fall off. “ _Which one_ , he says.”

Mick tore his gaze painfully away from the fire and towards the sky for a moment. He was tired. He didn’t need the old home movies playing out in his head again, against the familiar backdrop of heat and smoke. _Dragging his brother and sister out..._  After a minute, he said, “My mother.” He caught the look Len gave him after that, though it wasn’t quite what he expected. “So can I ask an asshole question yet, or is it your turn all night?” he snarled.

“Sure.”

He looked back to the darkening sky. “Why d’you flunk out of college?”

Len coughed in obvious surprise. “Where’d that come from?

“You decided it was random asshole questions night.”

Chuckling, Len lay back on the ground, his expression turning contemplative. “You really wanna know?” Mick nodded, and Len let out a long breath. He rolled up onto one elbow to look at Mick. “I think I’m cursed.”

“Hah. You’re not serious.” But Len’s face was oddly unguarded. “You are serious."

“Don’t know. Probably not literally.” He reached down to draw patterns in the dry earth with a stick. “Don’t know if it started with being shivved in juvie, or the deal they made me agree to after. But something’s been wrong, ever since. Just keep... failing.”

Mick stomped down on a familiar flash of anger that he didn’t understand. “C’mon. Can’t be that bad.”

With a shrug, Len said, “Pretty much. I did try. But I could never concentrate, and some of it was easy and some of it was impossible, and with trying to support Lisa and pay for school… Was easier to quit than figure it all out.” His eyes drifted back up, along the line of the old railway tracks going nowhere. “Got no sticking power. Not like you.”

Mick winced. “Oh, there’s plenty I gave up on.” He poked at the last embers of the fire. “You ever feel stuck?”

He watched something cross Len’s face that he couldn’t read. “Yeah,” was all Len said.

They dipped into silence again for a while. At last, Len said, “Hey,” and nudged Mick’s shoulder.

The nearly-full moon had risen over the derelict tracks, casting everything in an otherworldly white light.

Mick smiled.

“Becoming quite the astronomers, aren’t we?” Len apparently decided was the thing to say at that point.

It made Mick laugh, at least.

* * *

  
The months went on, and it occurred to Mick one day that it was a year since Len moved into the building. That day, the late afternoon sun was streaming through the office window as Mick forced himself through a paperwork shift. He blinked hard at the pile of documents and files in front of him, taking a swig from the enormous paper cup of coffee in front of him.

“Rory,” said the captain’s voice from the doorway. He was hanging off the doorframe, sticking his head into the office, the rest of him still in the corridor.

Mick blinked again. “Sir?”

“A word, if you don’t mind.”

Mick nodded and the captain came in. Clenching and unclenching his fists under the desk, Mick ran through lists of things he might have done wrong. He’d been doing so well…

The captain cocked his head at Mick as he sat down. “Nothing to worry about. Just got a question you might be able to help with.”

Mick did his breathing exercises as unobtrusively as possible. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“We got a visit from CCPD this morning. They’ve been looking for someone who’s been seen in your building. Might be a neighbor of yours?” He pushed a file across the desk to Mick.

Who stopped breathing again.

Clipped to the front of the file was a picture of Len. It was fuzzy, and he had a hood up, but it was unmistakably him—silvering hair, blue eyes and all.

_Suspect: Leonard Snart._

_Current alias: Lionel Wynters._

Glancing up, Mick saw the captain watching him intently. He attempted an expression that he hoped didn’t show any of the hundred different things running through his mind at once. None of them would do him any favours with the captain right now. “Hmmm,” he said, drawing out the sound.

“So, think you've seen him?”

“I’m… not sure.” Mick willed the tremor out of his voice. “It’s a big building.”

The captain nodded reassuringly. “Sure, of course.” He pulled the file back. “Well, keep an eye out, would you?” He pulled off the picture—there was an identical copy stapled underneath—and passed it to Mick. “Hang onto this, just in case you recognize him.”

“Hey,” Mick said. “What—uh. What they got on him?”

The captain was standing up, already looking back to the door. “A few things. Main one’s trafficking stolen goods, I think.” He clapped Mick on the arm. “Not someone you want living near you, eh?”

Mick flinched, then covered quickly with a smile. “No, sir. I’ll tell you if I see anything.”

“Good man,” the captain said from the doorway.

“Thanks, Captain,” Mick called after him, but he had already moved on.

Gripping the desk hard, Mick closed his eyes against the violent rush of reactions.

Then he picked up the phone. “Hey, Maria. You mind if I knock off early? A family thing’s come up. Station owes me comp time anyway. Okay, thanks.”

 _You fucking idiot_ , was all he could think, as he stared bleakly down at the photo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Thette for once again beta-reading this so well.
> 
> As usual, I love comments and always reply!


	5. Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go from bad to worse...
> 
> _“This is the only thing I lied about. Everything that mattered was true, Mick. Including—how I feel about you.”_
> 
> _The back legs of Mick’s chair returned to the ground with a final thunk that matched the cynical anger on his face. “That so,” he said, slowly._
> 
> _Len felt his eyes narrow. “Yes. What do you take me for? How many lies do you think I’d tell my partner?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See new tags—brief incident of domestic violence in this chapter. I've put more details in the endnotes, for anyone who needs to skip the (short) relevant section.

**_5 Years Ago_ **

_The last customer had already left, that Tuesday night, and Saints and Sinners was empty. Len was setting up to close when the door swung open and a_ ding _announced a final arrival._

_“Snart,” a voice called out from the door. “Long time no see.”_

_Len glanced up, then coolly returned his focus to the glass he was cleaning. “Evans,” he acknowledged. “We’re closing.”_

_Evans, who was all greasy hair and smarmy smile just like Len remembered, slid onto a bar stool. “Oh, I won’t be long,” he said. “I got a proposal for you, Snart.”_

_Len paused. Then he put the glass down and picked up another one. “That so?”_

_“Me and the boys have been talking. We need a fence. You used to help your father do that, didn’t you?”_

_He put down the glass, picked up a cloth and started wiping down the counter. “Among other things,” he said, after a moment._

_There was a laugh from the bar stool. Len still didn’t look up. “I heard your old man was a pretty rich guy when he kicked the bucket. You don’t seem to be doing quite as well, Junior.”_

_Len finally looked up with a mirthless smile. “Not anxious to end up dead in a prison riot and leave behind nothing but a small pile of money under my mattress, personally.”_

_Standing up, Evans leaned across the bar, getting into Len’s space. “But here you are, nothing under your mattress at all,” he said with a smirk. “Minimum wage jobs and a sister in school, I hear. Can’t be easy.” Len smelt cigarettes and beer on his breath, and he hoped his flinch away was imperceptible. He glanced back towards the door behind the bar. It was cracked open, light streaming through from the back office, but he didn’t want Alicia getting mixed up in this._

_Evans was scribbling on a slip of paper. He slid it across the table. There was a single phone number on it, in uneven handwriting. “We could hook you up with a much better-paying gig.” Len must have bristled, because Evans put a hand up and added, “Nothing big, if you don’t want it. You could stay under the radar. Even keep doing—” he waved a distasteful hand around, “this, too, if you want.”_

_Len glanced back down at the piece of paper. He was quiet for a moment. After a bit, he narrowed his eyes at Evans across the bar. “Why me? Been out of the business a very long time.”_

_Shrugging, Evans sat back down on his bar stool. “Word is, you and your father used to be good—discreet, loyal.” He flicked a coaster down the bar. “We need good people like you, Snart.”_

_Len kept his voice casual. “And who exactly is ‘we’?”_

_“We can talk about that. If you’re in.” Evans smiled that weasel smile again, and stood up. “Think about it.”_

_The door had swung shut before Len realised how long he’d been staring at the phone number on the piece of paper._

* * *

 

**Now**

Len’s carefully-constructed tower came crashing down around him at 4.42 that afternoon. The text just said, _My place. Now._

As he opened the door to apartment 17 with the key Mick had recently gifted to him, he wondered if he’d be giving it back by the end of this conversation.

Len paused at the door, taking in the scene, calculations running in his head. Mick was sitting at his kitchen table in the darkening apartment, staring at the wall. He didn’t look up when the door opened.

“Hi,” Len said, trying to will the caution out of his voice.

A photograph slid across the table towards him. “That’s you,” Mick said in a low, quiet voice. It wasn’t a question.

Len closed the door and stepped towards the table, his eyes trained on Mick. Picking up the photo, he nodded, ignoring the danger signal of his suddenly-racing heart. “That’s me.” He put it back down carefully. “What’s this about, Mick?”

There was an excruciating silence, and Len fought not to break it. “You lied to me,” Mick said, after a moment. “You never went legit.” Finally he turned to look at Len, who had to plant his feet hard to resist taking a step back. “You _lied_ to me,” he ground out again.

The expression on Mick’s face was something like revulsion. Abruptly, Len turned and wandered to to the sofa, his every step keeping up the lie of nonchalance. He sat down, avoiding Mick’s eyes. “Didn’t lie about anything important.”

Mick scoffed and his voice started to rise. “Oh, that makes it okay then!” He looked helplessly at Len. “I knew you were up to some shady shit—but _this?”_

Len froze. “What?”

“You heard me.” And Mick was back to staring at the wall.

“You _knew?”_

Mick laughed again—it was an awful sound. “’Course I knew, you fucker. I didn’t know _what_ I knew, but... What d’you take me for? Living next door to you, spending all this time together...” He shook his head at the table.

Len’s world view shifted jarringly to the left. “I don’t understand. How long have you known?”

A shrug. “Figured out you weren’t above board a few months ago.”

Len paused again, ran a hand over his head. Leaning back with his hand still against his head, he eventually managed to say, “You didn’t say anything.”

“I was waiting for you to tell me.” He tried to look Len in the eye. “Why the fuck didn’t you?”

Len reached for an answer, but all his grifter’s tricks were slipping away. The man who could talk his way out of any situation just shook his head helplessly.

Now he could see his partner’s mood shifting from disbelieving to angry. Mick got up—Len startled as the chair squeaked across the floor. He paced to the kitchen counter and leant against it, arms raised in challenge. “So, come on, then. What else d’you just _make up?_ Go on. I’m all ears. Did you really go to college? Really paying for your sister’s school? You even _got_ a sister?”

“You met her,” Len protested. The hyperbole was agitating.

Mick just talked over him, punctuating his words with harsh gesticulations. “What else? Double shifts at Big Belly and Saints?”

Len looked at the floor.

When he glanced back up, Mick eyes were wide. “Oh, you fucking bastard,” he growled.

Calculating the risks and rewards of anything he could say, Len looked right at his partner, for the first time in this mess of a conversation. At _Mick._ The man he—

He bit down on the feeling that he’d _fucked up._ He stayed silent, while Mick’s wrecked voice demanded, “Talk.”  

Eventually, Len wrapped one leg around the other, hugging his arms around his knees, and leant towards Mick. “I came here to lay low. I got—stupid.”

Mick’s eyes went wide. “You—” He shook his head slowly. “How long did you plan to stay, Snart?”

A breath caught in Len’s throat. He very nearly said _Snart now, is it?_ but thought better of it. He shrugged. “In the beginning? A month, two at most.”

His partner threw his head back, shaking his head at the ceiling. “Why are you still here, you jackass? What the fuck was worth that risk?”

Len blinked at him. “Why do you _think,_ Mick?”

“You fucking idiot,” he muttered. “The cops came to my work, Len. The _station._ You know, where I been working for fucking _years_ for a chance to be a firefighter?” He barked a bitter, disgusted laugh. “But some people don’t need to make an honest living, I guess.”

A detached part of Len noticed that his breathing was getting erratic.

Filling more of the morose silence, Mick added, “Hey, I hear you’re just a fence. And here I thought someone like you would be running the show. Kinda disappointing.”

It was more words than he had ever heard from Mick in one go. Standing up abruptly, Len wandered, step by slow step, to the window. He leaned on the windowsill, gazing out. The sun had dipped below the buildings opposite, the urban landscape falling into shadow. Central City was full of people going nowhere.

After a minute, he said, “Yeah. I only got back into the game about five years ago. Didn’t have a lot of skills anymore. Had to content myself with working for other people.”

Mick choked on another caustic laugh. It sounded like he was on the edge of hysterics. “God. And you were on at _me_ for not telling you shit… You telling me you went straight for fifteen years and then—what, you got _bored?_ D’you get tired of being better than your father? Just decide to join him in the gutter?”

Fists clenched at his sides, something was rooting Len to the spot. He warred with his uneven breath for a moment. Then he twisted around, jabbing a finger in Mick’s direction. _"Shut_ up. You don’t know anything.” His breath caught in his throat, and he stared down at his fists. “You don’t know _anything,"_ he said again, this time almost in a whisper.

Standing his ground, Mick said, “Then explain it to me.”

Len blew out a breath. “All my life, all I wanted was to be better than him. So I started living like I was. And you wanna know how it went? This,” he gestured around the apartment, “is better than how I was living.” He pushed past Mick—it took some mettle—and half-stumbled back to the sofa, letting himself drop onto it. The fight had suddenly gone out of him. “Flipping burgers and serving drinks was no life, Mick. Made it sixteen years before I realised that I sure could do better. Just not the hard way.”

Mick wasn’t looking like he understood, though. “Right,” he growled. “Please, make more excuses. Not making it at college—that someone else’s fault, too? Just wanted everything to come easy to you, yeah?” He stalked towards the sofa. “They gave you a _chance_. Some of us didn’t get those just out of nowhere. And years later you just go and blow it?” He shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. And something else, that wrapped a knot around Len’s insides. Disappointment.

“I guess so.” He was gripping the arm of the sofa, he realised. He was waiting for Mick to punch his lights out. He didn’t know why he hadn’t yet.

Mick took another step towards the couch, eyes wide and wary. Apparently he thought better of getting too close, pulling out a chair from under the table and dropping onto that, instead. “You could’ve lost me my job, Len. Fire training might still be at risk, now that they know about you. You know what that means to me. You _know._ ”  

In the tiny apartment, the foot between them was an immeasurable distance. Len reached for words—advice—a plan—but there was nothing there. It was an odd experience.

Mick tipped his chair back and forth, _clunk clunk_ against the floor. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because you can’t trust anyone but yourself.”

It wasn’t the answer he had expected to give, but there it was.

Mick snorted. “You mean _you_ can’t.”

Len’s eyes drifted down to the floor again. “Yes. Trusting other people never did me any good. Not in juvie. Not once since. The only person I can rely on is me.”

More hurt on Mick’s face, and again it twisted in Len’s gut. “This is me, Len,” Mick said quietly. “You didn’t even try.”

As Len looked up at Mick, a wave of sincerity flooded over him. “This is the only thing I lied about. Everything that mattered was true, Mick. Including—how I feel about you.”

The back legs of Mick’s chair returned to the ground with a final _thunk_ that matched the cynical anger on his face. “That so,” he said, slowly.

Len felt his eyes narrow. “Yes. What do you take me for? How many lies do you think I’d tell my _partner?"_

Mick was out of the chair in a second. He advanced on Len, who flinched back instinctively as Mick loomed above him. “How the hell would I know? I told you _everything_! Shit I never told anyone! And you—you do this!” He sneered down at him. “And you’re _still_ making shitty fucking excuses!”

A rising tide of panic crashed across Len, and he fought to show no external sign of it. He gave a quiet, defensive little laugh. “Oh, you wanna talk about _excuses,_ huh, Mick?” He stood up, pushing into Mick’s face. “You abandoned your _kid_ because you couldn’t control your drinking or your temper. At least my fucked-up choices never hurt anyone else.”

Mick took a single step back. “You little fucker,” he growled. He grabbed Len’s shoulders, shoving him down against the sofa, holding him down with both hands and all his weight.

“Let me up, Mick,” Len said, with no bite in his voice. He pushed back into the sofa, but there was nowhere to go.

Later, Len would wonder whether he was saved by the bell, or if Mick made the conscious choice to stop before this went somewhere he probably couldn’t come back from. Whichever it was, the phone rang. Mick stared at him for a moment longer, and then let him go.

Still frozen, Len watched Mick shuffle off the sofa and reach for his phone on the table. “Hi, Amaya. Yeah, I’m free. Okay, see you then. Bye.”

Gazing down at his phone, Mick barely spared Len a second glance. “Get out.”

Len snorted. “Seriously? You’re throwing me out.”

Mick was already at the door. “Yeah,” he said, his attention on the door. “I got things to work out with family. That’s not you. Leave.”

Len paused, for just a moment. And then, breathing evenly, he dragged himself up. “Well, good luck with that,” he drawled, attempting a saunter towards the door.

At the door, he turned to look at Mick, whose fists were clenched. He was shaking, probably with the effort to get his temper under control. And Len just couldn’t help himself. As casually as he could, he said, “I was protecting you, you know.” Mick’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t say anything. “You didn’t need to know. Everything was under control. The plan went off the rails, but I was about to get it back on track. You, though—Well. You got some nerve, judging me. Nothing’s on track in your life, is it, Mick? Never will be.”

Then he swept through the door and out towards his own apartment.

* * *

 

Mick couldn’t move. He watched Len go into his own apartment and close the door with a decisive, final slam.

Finally he went inside, slowly. He let the door swing shut behind him and stood, dazed, in the middle of his apartment.

The blood was pounding in his ears. He couldn’t _breathe._

And all at once, the rage hit him. In an explosive movement, he strode towards the table, roaring. He hefted up a chair and flung it at the wall.

And another.

Picking up a third, he smashed it into the kitchen counter, over and over. “You fucking _bastard!”_ he bellowed. The pile of mugs and plates on the countertop shattered around him.

He dropped the chair and advanced on the sofa where he had held Len down, and slammed his fist into the wall above it.

When Amaya got there ten minutes later, Mick was sitting huddled in the middle of the floor. His hands were bleeding, and his apartment was in chaos.

She stepped towards him with a look that cycled from outrage and disappointment to pity, and he had to look away.

“Oh, Mick,” she sighed.

He closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief section in this chapter where Mick holds Len down and looks like he's threatening to hit him, but lets him go before he does so. If you want to skip this section, it starts with "Mick was out of the chair in a second" and ends with "Mick stared at him for a moment longer, and then let him go." NB: It will be narratively underlined as _not at all_ acceptable, just not immediately. (I've been unhappy with all tagging solutions I came up with for this one, so please poke me if you want me to tag it a different way.) 
> 
> This chapter title was in fulfilment of a promise made to my excellent beta reader, Thette. 
> 
> To misquote a friend: this was just meant to be a fluffy neighborfic (and then coldwave happened to it...) One more (shorter) angsty chapter will be out soon, and then things will get a little lighter again. Via a bit of a winding path.


	6. Getting Rid of the Shovel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mick's hit rock bottom and Amaya's not taking it anymore. But something's about to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional content warning for two _very_ brief references to cleaning up blood, not at all graphic, in the second scene.  
> [Thette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thette/pseuds/Thette) continues to beta-read this like a champ.

**_9 Years Ago_ **

_The door to the apartment was open. “Amaya? You here?” he called._

_“Yeah, hon,” the reply filtered out._

_Mick dragged his burden up the last few stairs. “Come help me with this, wouldya? Need your firefighter lifting training!”_

_She emerged, tossing a dish towel back into the apartment behind her. Her smile was delighted. “Oh wow. That looks good!”_

_Fighting to pull the crib up, he had to stop to get his breath. “Some help, Amaya?”_

_“Sorry!” she laughed, and grabbed the other side of the crib. “On three!” she ordered, her firefighting instincts taking over so smoothly that he chuckled. They shifted it over the last stair. Then, just as they got it down the corridor and into the apartment, she started giggling uncontrollably._

_“Oh my god, would you—Amaya!” Shoving it into the room, they each dropped their end of the crib in perfectly synchronous timing. They collapsed onto the couch, both laughing._

_Hooking her arm over the back of the couch to get a good look at it, Amaya beamed at it, then turned to smile back at him. “Mick! You said it was in good condition, but this is amazing.”_

_“Right? Captain said his wife was gonna sell it, but he’s just a bleeding heart for a new family.”_

_He followed the line of her gaze to look at the crib. The sense of unease that had been haunting him for weeks was back._

_She turned her head back to look at him properly. “You going to tell me what this is about?” Her tone was light, familiar. “Come on. You’ve been quiet for days.”_

_“It’s nothing,” he said, moving to get up. “Gotta go back down to the truck. Captain gave us a cabinet, too.”_

_She reached out to touch his shoulder, and he looked down into her smiling face._ Too good for him. _“Want some help?” she asked._

_Already at the door, he said, “Nah, I’m good.”_

_He unloaded the cabinet in morose silence, and then he went out drinking._

_“Do you know what time it is?” she said from the sofa. Mick had just fumbled loudly with the doorknob and missed his step on the way in, and was clutching precariously onto a side table, almost on the floor._

_“Uh. Midnight, I guess?”_

_She strode over and pulled him up. “It’s 3 a.m.” She didn’t raise her voice. Amaya never raised her voice. Not like him. All but carrying him to the sofa, she said, “What the hell are you playing at, Mick?”_

_He wanted to say_ nothing _,_ _but she was watching him with that fierce look that said she wasn’t going to take any of his deflecting shit. There was always an anger simmering beneath her surface, too. She just contained hers way better than Mick. He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered._

_“Try me.”_

_He couldn’t breathe, suddenly, grabbing whatever was in front of him—a coaster, it turned out to be—turning it over and over in his hands. Amaya shifted closer to him. “I don’t know,” he said, only half lying. He made to stand up, stumbling on the way._

_She grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. “Mick.”_

_“I’m gonna be a shit dad,” he blurted out._

_Her eyes widened in defeated recognition for a second. Then she shook it off, and gave him one of her kind smiles. “You’re gonna be a great dad,” she said._

How do you know? I never had one of those. _“I got a lot of problems, Amaya. They ain’t going nowhere.”_

_She looked at him with that unshakeable, misplaced trust she always had in him. There was sadness behind it. “You can be who you are and be a good dad, Mick.”_

_“I been doing really well,” he tried to persuade himself. (It didn’t mean he couldn’t slip back.)_

_“You have,” she reassured, then sighed. “Though I could do without you stumbling in at 3 in the morning, honestly, Mick.”_

_“Sorry,” he said in barely more than a whisper. “It won’t happen again.”_

_He was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of needing to hit something. He let himself be led quietly to bed, instead._

* * *

** Now **

Amaya felt like she’d been tired for nine years. This time, the hurts-down-to-teeth-and-bones fatigue was mostly because she’d been awake half the night. When Ethan asked if he could go over to Robbie’s after school, she saw her chance.

She barely had the energy for the twenty minute drive to Mick’s, but somehow she found herself parked and staring up at his brownstone building. Not sure if she could do this, she dragged herself up the crumbling, sadly familiar stairs anyway.

And opened Mick’s unlocked door to find him curled in a ball on the floor.

And she wanted to curse herself for looking after him again, and him for—everything. But she was already on her hands and knees scrubbing blood off the floor before any of that occurred to her. She cleaned up what she could around his apartment, sidestepping turmoil and straightening up furniture, on autopilot. She left him to clean up his hands at the kitchen sink. She’d tried to help with that, too, but he’d refused to let her.

“Amaya, would you stop? I made this mess. I gotta clean it up.”

 _Well, there’s a novel idea,_ she didn’t say.

She picked up another chair, treading carefully around the one that was broken on the floor. Two of its legs were splintered into pieces, ruined, and she felt an incongruous twinge of sadness. “You going to tell me what happened yet?”

He glanced at his hands, then back over at her. “I didn’t hit anyone.” In an echo of conversations they’d had over and over, he added, “You believe me, right?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore, Mick.” He shot her a despairing look, and she sighed. “Yes. If you say you didn’t, you didn’t.” She came to join him at the sink, leaning against the cabinet while he just stood and stared at his hands. She glanced towards the front door. “Is this about your partner?”

He winced. “Fuck. You know who he is, don’t you?”

She nodded slowly. “I just found out.” A thick moment of silence later, trying to suppress the twitch of her mouth at the irony: “He’s being investigated by the guy who sits at the desk next to mine.”

Mick didn’t ask any of the dozen questions she feared he would. Not whether she was helping to investigate. Not whether she’d turned Snart in. Amaya was grateful, though she would have answered if he had asked. Years later, there still weren’t many things she wouldn’t do for him.

“He lied to me,” Mick said, after a moment. His face was a hopeless shade of gray. She knew that look, and how it could shift to fury in a moment. “I got—angry. He said some shitty things.”

He looked down at the sink and her eyes followed his gaze. There were savage little red trails running down the drain.

“I didn’t hit him,” he repeated weakly.

She twisted and took a hesitant little step back. “But?”

“I was gonna.”

She looked away for a minute, overcome with exhaustion again as the adrenaline seeped away. She pulled out one of the chairs she’d just returned to its position, sagging into it. “I came here to talk about our son, not to look after you yet again, Mick.”

He played with his hands, rubbing his thumbs across each other, over and over. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I was awake all night. He was—distraught.”

She expected his silence in response to that, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“We both know he’s not built to handle this, right?” Still no answer. “Have you got a timeline for seeing him yet? _Anything_ I can tell him?”

He shook his head helplessly. “It’s not—It’s a bad time. Not if I’m still getting like that. No.”

She hooked an arm behind her head, watching him not looking at her. “Mick, it’s always a bad time with you. I’ve been patient for a long time.”

“I’m trying,” he muttered.

That was the match in the powder keg. Something ragged and long-tired inside her just snapped. “You know, Mick, I’m honestly not sure you are. We both tried so hard, once. Until you didn’t anymore.”

She saw him swallow, but he didn't turn around, just kept his eyes fixed on the sink.

“I’m done, Mick. I’ve managed to put your needs ahead of mine for years—and we haven’t been married for a long time. If you’re going to keep making terrible choices, you can take responsibility for it yourself.” She huffed a breath out. “You do what you need to do. We’ll get on with our lives. Oh, and I’m quitting my job while I get him the help he needs.”

She’d been struggling with that decision for weeks, and now it had made itself.

He reeled around to look at her. “You’re what? Amaya—”

She didn’t stop for a beat. Everything she’d kept dammed away, all the stress and uncertainty, was suddenly pouring out of her. “If you’re too much of a coward to tell your own son why you won’t see him, then you get to live with that. But don’t you dare forget that you’re making him live with it too. And he’s eight years old, Mick.” She pulled herself up against the table and turned away.

“He deserves better,” she heard Mick say behind her, and it sounded like an echo.

Amaya just kept walking. “I could disagree with you again, but what’s the point?”

At the door, she stopped and turned back. “You know what? Maybe he does deserve better. You seem desperate enough to prove it. But you know where to find me if you ever realise what he deserves is a father.”

Her last glance behind her was at Mick staring at the door as she closed it.

Then she didn’t look back again.

* * *

Mick stopped up short in the doorway to apartment 19. Getting no answer to his knock, he had rattled the handle, found that Len had left it unlocked, and then—

The apartment was empty. The cheap furniture was all still there, but otherwise there was no evidence left that anyone had ever lived there.

Len had never kept a lot of stuff around. Mick had assumed it was a character quirk—that he liked to keep things tidy and simple. But maybe he just needed to be able to cut and run at less than a day’s notice. Free and unencumbered. No ties.

No partners.

Mick gripped the door handle, taking in the empty apartment. Then he moved slowly to the coffee table, the hollow creak of floorboards echoing across the room as he went. He brushed his hand over the empty surface. It was missing two pictures of Lisa, in her unlikely pair of incarnations as a gap-toothed kid in ice skates and an urbane, gilt-suited professional.

From there, he could see something peeking out from under the sofa. He crouched down and pulled it out. It was a book— _Firefighter Certification I._ He’d lent it to Len, his first week in the apartment.

_Do you know how much these fucking things cost?_

_Just let me borrow it for a bit._

_What the hell do you want with it?_

_Oh, let’s just say I’m interested._

Mick had made it through that college course six months later. He’d come running home to Len, certificate in hand. “Couldn’t’ve done it without you,” he joked, and they’d both pretended it wasn’t true. Mick never found the words to thank him properly.

He stood up and went to the table. And, yeah, there it was—the cliched note. All creased, like someone had screwed it up, made to throw it away, and flattened it out at the last minute.

Mick read it.

He shuffled to the window, not sure it was his own legs taking him there. Ran a hand over the cracked windowsill, tried and failed to see out through fractured glass. Everything in this shoddy fucking apartment was broken, and it was too late to fix it.

He’d spent all afternoon rehearsing lines he would never get to say now.

_Amaya’s given up on me._

_I got a son I’m too scared to see and a job I think I’m about to lose._

_Yes I am,_ he would have said, when Len would inevitably have protested. _They’re talking internal investigations._ _Who was I kidding? They were never gonna make me a firefighter._

He let himself drop to the couch. “You idiot,” he said softly. “I was gonna ask to come in on—whatever you do. I wanted to be your partner.”

The only reply was the groaning of the old sofa beneath him as he shifted his weight back and forth, back and forth.

He didn’t want to think about the lines he would never have said.

_You were right. I’m a coward who just makes excuses._

_I don’t wanna do this without you._

_Tell me this isn’t all our partnership means to you._

He looked back down at the sad little crumpled note in his hand.

_Mick. I’m trash. I should have told you how bad. We were never any good for each other. Go have a life with your son and be a firefighter._

Then, below, in a contrasting scrawl, an afterthought. _I was wrong. You can get your life back on track. Just not with me in it._

Mick balled up the note, and in a sudden fit of rage, hurled it into a corner.

Just as suddenly, the rage was gone again.

He sat for a long time on the dusty couch in the empty apartment, wondering if there would ever be anything in his life that he didn’t destroy.

* * *

On the first day after Len left, Mick went to bed, curled up under the blankets where it was warm and dark.

He barely got up for a couple of days.

On day three, he got up, took in the state of his apartment, and cleaned it—everything from washing drapes to mopping floors. He threw out everything he’d been hoarding that he didn’t need anymore.

On day five, he called Amaya and talked to his son. They were on the phone for an hour. Mick’s eyes were suspiciously damp when he hung up, and he was clutching a note. _Saturday, 11am, Amaya’s,_ it said.

He passed apartment 19 every day. He kept his head down, and kept walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it for the real angst! Things can only start looking up from here—for both of them... :)
> 
> Chapter title from quotation: “When I’m at the bottom looking up, the main question may not be ‘how do I get out of this hole?’ [but] ‘how do I get rid of the shovel that I used to dig it?'” - Craig D. Lounsbrough
> 
> I live for comments. And come find me on [tumblr](https://sophiainspace.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SophiaCatherin5).


	7. The Gifts You Left Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly a year later, Mick and Len are each surrounded by family--and pretending not to miss each other...

**_One Year Ago_ **

__“_ I don’t understand,” Mick said, staring down at the table. _

_Len had started rolling his eyes before he realised it. “It’s a gift, Mick. You know? When one person gets something for another person?” He reached over and patted Mick on the arm. “You’ll get used to it.”_

_There was a small but definite narrowing of Mick’s eyes. “You’re an asshole.”_

_“So I’ve been reliably informed.”_

_“I can’t accept this,” Mick muttered, frowning. “You can’t afford it.”_

_Len leaned back in his chair. His partner was an intractable puzzle that he generally enjoyed trying to figure out, but this really wasn’t the reaction he had expected to a damn_ gift _. Mick was clearly trying not to look at it, his index finger tap-tapping on the table._

_“Sure I can,” Len said. “I got the Christmas bonus, remember?” He squinted at Mick. “You don’t like it?”_

_The old-style blue typewriter sat on the table in the space between them._

_Mick gave it a look that spoke of wanting and not believing he could have. “Yeah. I like it. I—really like it.” He ran a hand over its surface, and smooth metal and bumps of keys brought out the hint of a smile. Then he tried a key with a_ clack, _raising satisfied eyebrows. “It’s the one I was looking at in the shop window, right?”_

_“Only for the past three months every time we passed it, yeah.” Len was watching him. “So what’s the problem?”_

_“Why d’you get it for me?”_

_Len raised his arms in a shrug. “Chanukah, Christmas… Pick one. I don’t care.”_

_The frown deepened, furrowing little lines into Mick’s brow. “I got you socks.”_

_Grinning, Len hiked one foot onto the table, showing off the Keystone Combines logo on the side of them. “And look, I’m wearing them, as is appropriate with a gift I like.” He returned his foot to the floor and tilted his head expectantly at Mick. “So. Your turn. Write something.”_

_“I couldn’t do that.”_

_He felt his smirk soften at the edges. “Yeah you could. Remember those stories you told me in juvie? That first week, when I was stuck in bed. One had aliens.”_

_Mick was gaping at him. “You—oh,” was all he managed to get out._

_He still didn’t look persuaded. Len sighed. “And I may have, uh, snooped.” He put up a hand at Mick’s wordless grunt of protest. “By accident! You remember a couple of months ago, you forgot your class notebook and said I should look for it and bring it to you at college?”_

_Mick's eyes were a mistrustful line. “Yeah. That was good of you.”_

_Len raised his arms again. “What can say. With me, you take the morally gray with the good. I also came across a notebook of stories you wrote.”_

_“Those were for Ethan,” Mick muttered with a half-hearted glare. He took a swig from the beer in front of him. “Been writing them for him for a while.”_

_That wasn’t a name Mick tossed around easily. Len felt his eyebrows go up. “You get to show him any?”_

_His partner shook his head, his eyes now fixed on the typewriter. “Not yet.”_

_In one decisive motion, Len reached across the table, opened the package of typewriter paper and pulled out a sheet. He fed it into the machine through the roller. Then he waved a hand over it in presentation, head tilted towards Mick._

_Mick frowned back at him. “What do I write?”_

_“Well. You could start by typing out ones you’ve already written, or work on something new, or—”_

_His hands were already clicking against keys, in a slow but steady rhythm._

_“That was quick.” Len suppressed a smile and folded his arms behind his head. “What are you writing?”_

_Silence for a moment. A few slow hunts-and-pecks later, his face set with concentration, Mick just said, “Letter.”_

_“Huh,” Len said approvingly._

* * *

 

**Now**

Mick packed Ethan off into the car with Amaya, then strolled back up the stairs to his apartment.

Sunday nights weren’t his favorite, though they were a damn sight better than the years of weekends without his son in them at all. He was usually prepared for the Sunday night solitude, sometimes with a firefighting shift lined up to take his mind off it. Tonight, though, he had nothing planned. Maybe he'd sit down with his _Firefighter II_ course books. Now that he’d started working in the field, the classes were getting harder, and he didn’t have a lot of help.

He paused when he opened his front door. The little apartment was flooded with moonlight. The blue typewriter, glinting like an invitation, had been left out on the table. He’d been writing that morning, in the shadowed hours before Ethan got up. He smiled, just looking at it for a moment. Then he turned on the lights, made coffee, and sat down.

His table was covered in papers, but they were organised in neat piles. On his left was a stack of well-thumbed firefighter course books. To his other side, a big three-ring binder comprised an unfinished draft that he was slowly hammering into the shape of a novel.

Tonight he ignored both piles. He reached for a pack of plain paper, instead, rolling a sheet into the typewriter with the satisfying _whirr_ and _click_ that signalled the start of all his writing sessions. The mechanical keys _clack-clacked_ under his hands in a soothing rhythm.

 _Dear Len,_ he wrote at the top of the page. He paused, reaching for his coffee, then his hands returned to familiar keys.

 _Been a while since I last wrote, I guess? I had a lot going on. Ethan’s growing up. Keeps me on my toes._ He stopped and chuckled quietly at a fond memory from the weekend. He'd taken Ethan to the movies. Just some dinosaur flick, but the kid had been mesmerized. It was the longest Mick ever remembered him staying quiet in one go. _You should see him, Lenny._

Grabbing a pen from the table next to him, he crossed out ‘him’ and wrote a scribbled ‘us’ above it.

He added a few more lines of updates—on his new life as a firefighter, his work at the kids’ center, his classes, a couple more stories about Ethan. When he looked up an hour later, he was three pages in. Grinning, he added a joke about how he didn’t know how he was fitting everything into twenty-four hour days.

Then he took a deep breath and another reassuringly bitter gulp of coffee.

_It ain’t the same without you here. Wish you hadn’t left. And yeah. I should have just told you some of this while you were still around. But you know me. Not the best at this shit._

He sighed, sipping from his mug again, letting his hands work themselves around and around the mug. It had been a gag gift from Len—weirdly reindeer-shaped, a challenge to drink from. It was his favorite mug anyway.

Then he signed off, slipping back into a lighter, chatty tone for the last few lines of the letter.

Pulling the letter out of the typewriter, he reached up to a shelf behind him and, not even needing to look, pulled down a black expanding file. He slotted the letter neatly in behind at least a dozen others. He clicked the file shut and returned it to the shelf.

Then he got up to make more coffee. When he had it in his hands, comforting in its weight and warmth, he went to stand at the window. He kept watch over a moonlight-illuminated city—magical and dreamlike, but maybe a little cold.

* * *

 

Len stood at the window in his little house by the beach, gazing out over a gray sea. In the dying half-light he could just see the fog creeping in with the tide. From this vantage point, where his house stood alone on the tiny coastal road, Len rarely saw another soul—and that was how he liked it.

A draught of icy air blasted him out of his daydream, and he went back to trying to screw the loose window bolt back into its fitting. Every time he got close, the damn thing moved out of place again. He fumbled with the screwdriver and it clattered to the floor. Len swore and reached down to pick it up.

He heard the front door open and bang shut. “I’m in here,” he called out.

“Oh yeah, I see you moping at the window,” Lisa said. “What a surprise.” Her smirk was a mirror of his own, as she dumped her shopping bags on the sofa.

“Not moping. Fixing things.” He waved the screwdriver at her. She raised an amused eyebrow and came over. Grabbing it off him, she set about replacing the bolt screws with more dexterity than he’d ever had. Well, maybe back in his early shoplifting years.

He leaned against the adjacent wall, trying to ignore the odd stab in his heart as he watched her. For a moment, this independent, accomplished woman was a stranger, and he had a flash of the four-year-old he’d fought so hard to keep with him after juvie. He must have been staring too intently, because she stopped and crinkled her nose at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, feeling his mouth tugging at a smile.

She finished and tossed him the screwdriver, going back to the sofa. He nodded at her shopping bags. “What did you bring?”

With a finger in the air, she was already rifling through the bags. “A few things for me, not important. But—hmm, where is it—aha!” Lifting up a dark blue shirt in triumph, she came over and shoved it against him, while he squirmed away. “Perfect! Go try this on. There’s two more in here.”

Len attempted an unimpressed look. “I have shirts. What do I want with these?”

Her smirk widened. “You’re gonna need better ones than the cheap crap in your wardrobe now, Lenny. You got the interview.”

He blinked. “Not for the internship in your firm?”

She hit him lightly on the arm with the shirt. “No, for Big Belly Burger. Yes, for the internship in my firm, you goober.”

“The hell are they thinking? I won’t graduate for another two years…” He trailed off, frowning.

“Why d’you even apply with an attitude like that? They like you, you freak. It’s not like it’s paid. Might be boring work, but some of it’ll count towards your licensing—eventually.” She shrugged. “Try not to fail your exams, and they might even give you a real job when you grow up.” She flopped onto the sofa next to the shopping bags, grinning wide at him. “Oh god, you’re gonna be so bored.”

He chuckled, leaning against the back of the sofa, running restless fingers idly back and forth along it. “I can tell you all about boring jobs, Lise. This’ll hardly be the worst I’ve had.” At an ache of—something, he started busying himself with clearing up used cups from the coffee table in front of her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What?”

“There was a time I’d have been too proud to take a job where my _little sister_ had to put in a good word for me because I got no experience and nowhere else is gonna look the other way at my criminal record.”

She pursed her lips, regarding him more seriously now. “Lenny, I remember a time you were too proud to let me fix your kitchen cabinets, never mind help with anything bigger. This is _good_ , jerk.” Not pausing in his cup-collecting, he nodded. “So what’s the problem?” She poked him in the arm. “You’re doing great. Stop feeling guilty.”

“That’ll be the day,” he muttered.

She leaned up on her arm. “Redemption arc getting dull?” Her inflection suggested she was making fun of him, but there was a shrewd edge to it.

He set down the mugs and perched on the end of the table, glaring at his shoes.

“Lenny. Stop sulking.”

“M’not sulking,” he said in a sulky tone.

“Sure you are. And we’ve been over this. Either you move on, or you go and find him. But you gotta stop moping around feeling guilty. It’s been nearly a year—”

“—In which I haven’t even contacted him.” He looked up at her. “You really think he’s gonna want to see me, after I lied to him for a year and then ran away?” Voice dropping into a mutter, he added, “All I ever did to that man was hurt him.”

“Pretty sure that’s not true,” she said in a gentler tone. She met his eyes and looked quickly away.

“You forgave me, right?” he found himself saying.

She looked up in surprise, probably a reaction to the rare bluntness, then smiled a saccharine smile. “You mean when you told me you’d paid for my education by sliding back into the criminal habits I thought you’d long moved on from? Oh, yeah.”

They were both silent for a minute, the conversation wandering too close to the mark for both of them. Len set his mouth in a line as he stared at the floor, feeling Lisa watching him.

Then she jumped up, pulling up the bag from where she’d flung it down on the sofa. “Shirts. Now!” she said in the tone of one scolding a child. He rolled his eyes, but accepted the bag from her.

Behind him, Lisa sat down in front of the television, an old-style boxy thing that Len had rented with the house, and turned on the news.

Len was already at the door to the hallway when he caught the newsreader’s voice behind him. “…an accident on the SR-150 near Ferris Air…” He turned around, half-listening as he examined the size label on one of the shirts. “Tonight’s dense fog apparently caught the drivers by surprise. A claim that one driver’s brakes were having unusual issues is still being investigated. Among the injured are…” Len glanced up towards the screen, and froze.

There was a picture of Mick Rory on the TV screen. It was an old candid shot—he was sitting on a motorbike, laughing. Too quickly, the photo was replaced by someone else’s. “Lise,” he said, hearing the edge of panic in his own voice. “Call Shawna.”

Lisa was distracted, rifling through her bags. “What?”

“That’s _Mick._ What hospital, Lise?”

She looked up at the screen, eyes widening, and she had her phone out in a second. “Voicemail,” she said, tapping her foot in frustration. “Hey, babe. Sorry to call when you’re at work. D’you know if they took the injuries from the 150 crash to your hospital? Get back to me when you can, if they did.”

He stood, gripping the door frame, staring at the TV screen, though the newsreader had moved on to another story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me happier than you can imagine. 
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://sophiainspace.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SophiaCatherin5)


	8. Nothing's More Important Than Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len goes to the hospital, talks to Amaya, and then talks to Mick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you'll have seen that the authorship of this fic changed slightly. I've added my beta reader as a co-writer. Nothing's changing - I'm still writing the text of the story - but Thette has been an _incredible_ story consultant and editor on this, and I couldn't have written it without her. Thanks, Thette!

**_22 Years Ago_ **

_Once Leonard’s life wasn’t in immediate danger, no one bothered him much in the hospital. There was an occasional nurse, and an even rarer doctor who didn’t seem too interested in his juvenile delinquent patient._

_Then the social worker arrived._

_Leonard didn’t like social workers. He’d had enough near-misses with them for one lifetime. They tended to look at him like he was either hopeless trash or a charity case, and he wasn’t sure which was worse._

_He looked the guy over as he sat down in the chair next to his bed. He was in jeans and a sweater, with a long black scarf that he probably thought was cool, or something. Bleeding heart type. Leonard was just considering how to play this when the guy started the proceedings for him._

_“Hello, Leonard!” he said in a tone that would probably have worked better on a ten-year-old. “Do you prefer Leonard, or something for short?”_

_Leonard glared at the ceiling. “Snart,” he said eventually._

_The social worker raised his eyebrows. “Well. I’m Mr Wheeler. Can we talk?”_

_Leonard was as silent as he’d been taught to be around busybody bureaucrats. Even his father couldn’t claim he hadn’t learnt that lesson._

_Wheeler opened a file. “Are they looking after you well?”_

_“Fine,” Leonard said to the ceiling._

_The guy smiled at him. Leonard did not like that smile._

_He slowly and carefully sat up in bed, breathing through the pain. “What can I do for you, Mr Wheeler?” he asked in a conciliatory tone, only as false as any other he might use._

_“Well,” Wheeler said, “that might depend on you.” He passed the file to Leonard across the bed. “We want to offer you a deal. If you’ll talk.”_

_Leonard reached for the file, opened it, flicked through it with exaggerated nonchalance—refusing to flinch at the medical reports—and closed it again. He handed it back to Wheeler. “Yeah, thanks. I was there,” he muttered, and lapsed back into a moody silence._

_He saw the moment that the cogs started turning in Wheeler’s mind. “Here’s the thing, Snart,” he said. “The police revisited your case. They’re about to charge your father with grand theft auto, plus the two felony counts of child abuse they think they can make stick based on what they’ve put together there—” he nodded at the file. “We want your statement that Lewis was behind the car thefts. If you really want to help us out, statements about what’s in that file, too.”_

_His hand twitching at his mouth, Leonard stayed very quiet._

_“If you don’t cooperate,” Wheeler continued, “they should still be able to charge him with some of it. But you should consider it.” He leaned forward. “Did anyone tell you how close those boys came to killing you?”_

_Leonard’s hands pulled down into fists. He must have looked more shocked than he meant to, because Wheeler’s tone pulled back into something softer. “You can’t tell me you’re really going to choose to stay in juvenile detention when we’re offering you an out, Snart.”_

_He covered his swallow with a shrug. “Those guys aren’t gonna bother me again.”_

_“Are you sure about that?” Wheeler tilted his head, mimicking Leonard’s own gestures. “Look. You were clearly at least an accessory to the thefts, so we can’t promise anything. But even in the worst case scenario, we can transfer you soon. Best case, though, the judge feels bad for you and you get parole._ If _you cooperate.”_

_Through clenched teeth, Leonard said, “What about my sister?”_

_Wheeler nodded. “We’re arranging for your grandfather to get her out of the house before the police arrive. Foster care, probably, long-term.”_

_Leonard gripped the side of his bed. Wheeler clocked the movement, adding, “Cooperate, and we’ll make sure they don’t split you two up.”_

_He let his head fall back hard against the metal bars behind him. “I’m assuming this offer to help me… expires?”_

_Wheeler stood up. “They’re releasing you back to the juvenile detention center in 24 hours. Can’t give you much more time after that—they want to move fast with your father. It might take a few weeks to get the case to court, but we’ll keep a close eye on you in the meantime.” He nodded at the file. “My number’s in there.” At the door, he turned back. “If you don’t care about yourself, at least think about your sister, hmm, Leonard?”_

_He looked down at the file Wheeler had left on the bed, and sighed._

_He was still staring at it two hours later, when a nurse stuck a head of curls around the door. “You good?” she asked._

_“Might be about to make a huge mistake,” he muttered._

_“Sorry, hon?”_

_He shook his head. “Never mind. Hey, could you help me out to the hallway? Need to make a phone call.”_

* * *

**Now**

Len’s phone was ringing. He glanced up from his books to see an unknown number. A few unpleasant reasons not to answer it raced briefly through his head. Reaching across the table, he switched it to silent.

Then it _pinged_ with a text message.

_This is Amaya Jiwe. Can we talk?_

He was still staring at the phone when it rang again, and he answered. “Hi.”

“Leonard Snart?”

“Yeah.”

There was a brief silence before she said, “We can’t accept this.”

He sighed. “How d’you find out?”

“I’m a resourceful person, Mr Snart. And I could ask you the same question.” He pointedly didn’t reply. “And we can’t accept it,” she insisted again. “Not if it’s—”

“It’s not stolen money,” he interrupted. “I have some pull with the hospital.” At her incredulous silence, he added, “Is this Mick’s complaint, or yours?”

There was a silence before she said, “Mick won’t talk about you. This is all me.”

That wasn’t unexpected, but he still had to swallow the reaction that threatened to push its way up. “Let me come to the hospital. Just to explain—I won’t bother Mick.”

A pause on the other end suggested she was thinking about it.

“Can’t say what I need to on the phone,” he said.

“Okay,” Amaya said.

* * *

Len pushed through the revolving doors into the too-bright, crowded hospital. He’d barely stepped inside before something hit him right smack in the side. It turned out to be a boy, elementary school age. The kid froze and gazed at Len with wide, spooked eyes.

“Watch where you’re going, kid,” he growled. The boy kept staring for another awkward moment, then took off at the same speed in a different direction. Len rolled his eyes and went looking for Amaya.

She was outside the hospital cafe, curled up in a plastic chair that looked like hell to sit on. “Leonard Snart,” she said. And then, to his surprise, she smiled.

“Hi.” Len passed her the coffee he’d brought her. He hovered near her seat, eventually settling for leaning on a pillar next to her.

After some uncomfortable initial pleasantries, she launched right in. “So. You wanted to explain...?”

He curled his fingers tightly around his fragile paper cup. “I heard Mick was short his physical therapy costs. Like I said, I know some people at the hospital, and I pulled some strings. It didn’t end up costing much. Didn’t want him to lose his job.” The last couple of sentences came out as an embarrassed mutter that he hated.

Amaya fixed him with a _look_. “And how did you hear that?”

“I have a... contact here. They made some enquiries that I shouldn’t have asked for. I’m a terrible person, in short.” He glanced up towards the corridor leading out to the rooms. “You tell him you found out I paid?”

She nodded. “Sorry. I wanted to give you the chance to do that, but I didn’t know if—”

“If he’d see me?”

There was more pity in her look than he needed to see.

“This is why he wasn’t supposed to find out,” he muttered, and sighed. “I get it. Mick’s got his self-respect. So call it a loan.” 

“I’ll talk to him,” she murmured. She still had the suspicious look in her eyes, but it was fading.

He tilted his head, smirking. “In my defense, you weren’t meant to find out.”

Her laugh was low and musical. She regarded him with an astute expression. “Not that we don’t appreciate it, but you do have some terrible ways of going about things, Mr Snart."

His hands were drumming against the pillar behind him. “Yeah. So I’ve been discovering.”

Len’s eyes flickered towards the corridor again, and Amaya noticed. “Do you want to see him?”

He felt his mouth twisting silently.

She gestured at the chair next to hers. “Would you sit, Mr Snart?”

“Please. It’s Leonard, or Len.”

She narrowed twinkling eyes above a faint smile. “Hi, Leonard. I’m Amaya.”

He shoved himself into the wretched plastic seat, reaching out a hand. “Well, it’s good to meet you—uh, properly.”

“You mean rather than finding me at my ex-husband’s apartment before you knew I existed?” she said lightly, but her face was serious as she returned his handshake.

“Yeah.” He narrowed his eyes at her. He was searching her face for some sign of anger, or—anything. “Amaya. If I made things more complicated for you and your family…” He trailed off with a laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Not too good with the apology stuff.”

“You _do_ surprise me,” she said in a flat tone, but she was smiling again. “It’s not me you should be apologising to, though, is it?”

He chuckled. “Fair. So let’s call it… practice,” he said, counting out repeating squares on floor tiles. “I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to tell a near-stranger that, but there it was.

“And how are you doing with fixing those?” He glanced back up to see her watching at him with a mix of indignation and pity. Len didn’t like either, but he figured she had the right to feel what she felt about him.

“I’m trying,” he admitted, stretching out in the chair, edges digging painfully into his sides. “I got out. Working on getting my life back together.” He knew she’d fill in the blanks.

She sat back with her head against the wall, looking askance at him. “And you’ve told Mick none of this?”

“We haven't talked.” He gave a casual shrug to cover any reaction to that. “And—I needed to do it for me, not him.” His eyes narrowed, just a little. “Don’t know if he’d even talk to me again.”

She shook her head. “I’m not the one who gets to decide that. But…” She was studying him again. “I know your relationship wasn’t, well, conventional.” Len raised an eyebrow at that, but nodded. “But it was exactly what he—”

Just then, a boy came barrelling into view, narrowly avoiding people on either side, waving two chocolate bars. Len recognised him as the kid who had run into him earlier. “Mom, they didn’t have Skittles, so I got you a Milky Way.”

Amaya’s face lit up when she saw him. The kid stopped mid-run and looked warily at Len. “It’s okay, Ethan,” she said, as he moved to the seat on her farthest side from Len. “This is Mr Snart.”

“I’m autistic, so I don’t like strangers,” he explained in a serious, grown-up tone, even as he burrowed incongruously into his mother’s side and hid his face against her. “I’m sorry I ran into you,” he said, muffled.

“That’s okay. You didn’t mean to.” The kid didn’t move. “You like chocolate bars, huh?” He nodded into his mother’s side, and Len dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “I only like chocolate when it’s hot cocoa.”

There was a skeptical silence from the kid, so Len tried again. “Autistic like your dad, hmm?”

Ethan’s head emerged immediately, a suspicious but interested look on his face. “You know my dad?”

Len gave a serious nod. “I do indeed.”

The kid’s expression transformed into a grin and he rushed to pull his phone out of his pocket, managing to hit his mom in the process, who chuckled. “Dad took me to the zoo last weekend. Do you want to see a picture?”

“He did?” Len cast a hesitant glance in Amaya’s direction. She nodded, and Len accepted the phone.

In the slightly out-of-focus picture, Mick was standing in front of the penguin enclosure, his arm thrown around his son. They looked like any other happy family.

“Huh,” Len sad quietly. He passed the phone back to Ethan. “And what do you like to do with your mom?”

Ethan grinned even wider and scrolled to another picture, holding the phone up triumphantly for Len. “My mom’s a black belt in jiu jitsu and she works for the FBI!” This time the picture was of Amaya and Ethan in matching white robes, Ethan’s belt blue, Amaya’s black.

Len tilted his head at Amaya, and who raised a wry eyebrow at her son. “Ethan, what have we said about not blurting out that last part?”

Ethan put his hand over his mouth and turned his head back into his mother’s side. “Oops,” he said, and giggled.

Len laughed, and Amaya smiled back at him.

“And here I’d heard you were in the firefighting business,” he said thoughtfully. “A Fed, huh?”

She ruffled her son’s hair as he jumped down. “I used to be a firefighter, yes. And now I investigate complex arson cases.”

“Ironic,” he said, and she bounced her eyebrows at him. His eyes narrowed at his empty coffee cup. “So was it you who reported me?”

Amaya unwrapped her chocolate bar and took a slow bite. “No,” she said. “Organised crime’s not my jurisdiction, but it is possible someone in my office—” She shook her head. “I decided not to ask.” She met his eyes with a ferocious gaze, and he swallowed. “Look, Leonard. It’s none of my business. But I can’t say I wasn’t worried, when I found out what you were involved in. Mick’s my family. So you can tell me I’m out of line if you want, but…” She shook her head, biting her lip as she trailed off.

“You’re not out of line,” he murmured. “Nothing’s more important than family.”

She was still gazing at him, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry, though, if it did have anything to do with me. I would never have done that to him intentionally.”

He nodded.

“You should talk to him,” she said quietly. She turned her attention to the kid, who had gone to a chair opposite and was chomping loudly on his chocolate.

Len sighed. “I don’t know, Amaya. I did some pretty shitty things.”

She was searching in her bag. “Here, Ethan,” she said, passing something to her son. She turned back to Len. “Yes, you did. Are you going to take responsibility for them?”

He was finding his empty coffee cup fascinating again, turning it around in his hands. “He doesn’t need to be in my world. Nothing ever goes right for me.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Great attitude you’ve got there.” She sighed. “I can’t quite believe I’m saying this, since I’ve already told him I’m not dealing with any more overgrown children who can’t get their shit together, and apparently here I am letting another one walk all over me—” Len chuckled, with an apologetic look. “But he misses you," she continued. "I get the sense you two had something pretty special.”

He silently nodded again.

She dropped into a low, dangerous tone. “But let’s get one thing clear right now. You won’t be allowed within a hundred miles of my son if you start spending time with Mick again and you’re not telling the whole truth about your criminal past being—well, being _past.”_

A breath caught in his throat. “Fair,” he said softly. He let go of the chair armrests that he hadn’t realised he’d been white-knuckling.

Amaya saw the reaction, and raised an eyebrow.

“Had enough experience with my own terrible criminal role models. Not giving that gift to any other kid.” He was aiming for a drawl, but his voice wasn’t working right. “If you wanted me to stay away from Mick, I’d understand—”

“No,” she said quickly. “It’s not my call, beyond my son’s welfare. But, no, that’s not what I want.” She sighed. “You wanna throw away what you guys had, it’s none of my business. But it is his. Do you really want to make that decision without his input?”

He sat back, his arms folded. “I like you.” His eyes fell on Ethan, who was now crouched on the floor with two toy fire trucks, acting out a rescue scene. Suddenly Len was back in a tiny apartment, firefighting course books all over a grimy table, and Mick talking about fire rescue like he was born to do it.

_You’re gonna make me draw it out again, aren’t you, you bastard?_

Len sighed. “What floor’s his room on?”

Amaya smiled.

* * *

All things considered, Mick was looking good for someone a few days out from a car accident. Len leaned against the doorframe, taking him in. He was sprawled out on the bed, scribbling in a notebook. His leg was in a splint and there were some bruises on the side of his face, but there were no other obvious signs of damage. He was grinning at whatever he was writing, and Len’s selfish little heart clenched. He hadn’t put that look on Mick’s face.

Len let out a frustrated sigh, blinked hard, and cleared his throat a little more dramatically than he meant to.

Mick looked up. His face registered surprise, then suspicion, and then he settled into a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He raised an eyebrow, and Mick nodded at him to come in. Len stepped warily into the room, stopping at the wall next to Mick’s bed. He stared at the floor. Silence filled the little room.

When he glanced up, Mick was scowling at him—but with something like fond frustration. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you jackass? You can’t afford to pay my bills.”

Len’s hand ran up and down the wall behind him. Might as well jump right in, then. “You remember my sister Lisa—her fiancée, Shawna?” Mick nodded. “Shawna’s a junior doctor here. Half her family have run one department or another over the years, and they’re all big benefactors. Lisa paid, but I get the impression they didn’t ask for much.” He shrugged as casually as he could. “Like I told Amaya, call it a loan.”

Mick’s suspicious look stayed firmly in place.

Pulling out his pocket notebook, Len wrote a figure down, tore out the piece of paper and passed it over to him. “That’s what my sister paid.” He shrugged. “But you can say no.”

Mick looked up at Len, then back down at the piece of the paper. His eyes were wide, and he looked like he was fighting an internal battle. Then he nodded, pocketing it. “I’m on Amaya’s insurance right now, but they won’t pay for everything. I’m volunteer firefighting full-time. Building up experience and that.”

Len blinked. “You did it,” he said softly.

Mick met his eye with a smile that made Len want to hug him—he stayed stubbornly frozen by the wall, of course. “Yeah,” Mick said. “I did.” Raising a finger, he waved it at Len. “And that ain’t what we’re talking about right now. Why do I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me about this?”

“There—might be. Not sure yet.” He raised an eyebrow at Mick’s look. “I don’t think it’s a great time to lie to you, do you?”

Mick narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond.

“I’m working on it,” Len added. “Trust me?”

Mick snorted.  _“Trust you,”_ he muttered, shaking his head. “You just up and left. Didn’t so much as tell me where you were going.”

“I had my reasons,” Len said, cool as he could manage. Mick’s face was all kinds of awful, and Len went back to examining the institutional gray carpet.

 _“Reasons?_ Seriously, Len?” His voice was starting to rise. Len restrained himself from wincing. “And then I don’t hear from you for nearly a year. What the hell?”

They stared at each other across the gap between the wall and the bed for a few tense moments. Len fought, hard, with an urge to run.

After a minute, he strode over to the chair by the bed and sat down. He dragged a hand across his head. “Okay. Can we start again?”

Mick’s eyebrows were raised. “Uh. Okay…”

Leaning back, Len crossed his legs and attempted a smile. “Maybe we start with ‘How’ve you been?’ and work our way up to the whole ‘yelled accusations’ part?”

The gamble paid off. Mick relaxed, chuckling. “Yeah. Okay.” He winked at him. “Hi, I’m Mick. I’m a firefighter. I spend my weekends with my kid and I volunteer to help children learn to read.”

Len snorted. “Good to meet you, Mick.”

“I heard you been doing okay,” Mick said, sounding a little more muted again, but interested.

“Yeah. I—Hey, what do you mean, you heard?”

Mick scratched his head. “I, um. I might’ve been chatting to Lisa on the phone. Just now and then, y’know.”

Tilting his head, Len said, “You’ve _what?”_

“And once or twice in person.” Mick shot him an amused, guilty look from under raised eyebrows. “We were worried about you.”

Len raised his hands helplessly. “I don’t even—Apparently I’m surrounded by people conspiring against me.”

“Go easy on her,” Mick offered, with a sly smile.

He shook his head, but found himself smiling back. “Well, I don’t know what my meddling baby sister told you, so, here.” He pulled out his wallet, passing it over to Mick. The name on the license was Alan Snyde. “I did a deal. Ratted some people out. It was… kind of the only way out.” He glanced at Mick, who was staring at the license. “If I wanted to go legit, I mean. Witness protection, new identity. Gotta stay out of the way of some people in Central, though.”

Mick whistled, looking back up at Len with wide eyes. “You did this right, didn’t you?”

Len gaped at him, floundering for an answer at first. “Yeah. I’m—trying. Working on my degree. Got a job in my sister’s engineering firm. Just an internship, but it’s a start.”

“Huh,” Mick said, on an impressed note. He turned the license over, laughed and passed it back to Len. “Alan? It don’t suit you.”

“It’s so Len could be a vaguely believable nickname!” he protested, but he grinned back.

“Still, you replaced one terrible last name with another. Consistent.” Mick’s smirk was triumphant.

“Funny.”

Mick was looking at him with a thoughtful expression. “Life’s weird, ain’t it? Two days ago I never wanted to see you again. Now I’m wondering if you want a coffee.”

He felt a smirk forming without his permission. “Sure, I could handle a coffee.”

“Great. Machine’s down the end of the corridor.” He tilted his head at Len. “What? I’m injured.”

Len grumbled, but he went.

While he was waiting for the machine to do its thing, he remembered something, and pulled out his phone.

“Hey, Lenny,” his sister answered.

“Hi, Lise. So nice to hear your voice. Now are you gonna tell me what the hell this is about you meeting up with Mick behind my back?”

He was pretty sure the whole hospital heard his reaction when she told him it had been going on the whole freaking year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are writing fuel and lifeblood - commenters get a virtual cookie and my endless appreciation.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://sophiainspace.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/SophiaCatherin5).


	9. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len wants to try this thing again, but Mick's not sure. And Mick's going to have to get through Len's walls if they're going to resume any kind of friendship at all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I made a mistake in the timing of the last chapter's flashback. It's fixed now. Damn these dates and timelines!)

**_Fourteen Years Ago_ **

_A few years after Lewis was sent down, Lisa came home from school to the cleanest apartment she’d ever seen, even by Lenny’s standards. She rolled her eyes and put her bag down._

_“You’re hurt,” Lenny said from the kitchen doorway, in that tight tone she knew so well. Meant he was about to panic, usually._

_“Just got in a bit of a fight,” she said, as reassuringly as she could. She came close to show him her shiner. It really wasn’t that bad._

_He took a slow breath. She could practically see him counting to ten in his head. “What the hell, Lisa?” he asked, all quiet and restrained._

_She made a face at him. “Tanya Harris. I hate that bitch.”_

_He started obviously fighting a smile, and she grinned widely back._

_He went to get the first aid kit. “All right, kid,” he said as he came back with it, setting it down next to her on the table—she hopped up—and rummaging through it. “What happened this time?”_

_She shrugged. “She was saying mean things about us again.”_

_He sighed, dabbing at her eye with antiseptic on a cotton ball. “Lise, you gotta get used to that.”_

_“But this wasn’t about us being trailer trash,” she whined, kicking the table leg. “Or about Lewis. Ow!”_

_“Sorry. Almost done.” He placed a band-aid beneath her eye with care. (She was pretty sure she didn’t need it, and that he just needed to do something.) “So what was it about, then?”_

_Lisa scrunched her face up. She caught her brother giving her a look, fear pooling darkly in his eyes. She folded her arms across her chest and said nothing._

_He sighed, but didn’t push it. “That’s done.” He put down the used cotton ball and reached for another. “Hand?” She tried to give him an innocent look, and he raised his eyebrows in reply. “Yeah, there’s no way you didn’t hit first.”_

_“Fine.” She lifted the skinned knuckles on her right hand towards him. “It’s fine, though. I said it was. Geez.”_

_“Hmph.” He made a show of dabbing her knuckles. “You want a bandage on that too?”_

_She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “Oh, please.”_

_He chuckled. “Then you’re good. Go away.”_

_“I want a lollipop.”_

_Len tilted his head to the side. “How old are you?”_

_“Twelve. Lollipop.” She held out her hand._

_Muttering, he went back to the kitchen to find her one. “Catch.”_

_She caught it, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth, still swinging her feet and looking at the floor all the while. “Lenny...”_

_“Lisa.”_

_She talked with a full mouth, noticing that he didn’t complain at her for it. “You cleaned up again.”_

_“Stuff needed throwing out.”_

_“It really didn’t.”_

_Minimalism, her brother liked to call it, but Lisa didn’t think it was really that. He once told her that too much stuff was an anchor weighing you down. She knew he worried about her being taken away by social services. She knew he was anxious about their father turning up again one day, about a million ways he could lose her. She didn’t know how to help._

_“Didn’t touch anything in your room.” He was tapping the door frame, still looking like he was counting in his head. He caught her looking, and said, “Don’t worry, Lise. I’m fine.”_

_She jumped down and took a step towards him. “You sure? ‘Cause you only do this when you’re not.”_

_“I’m sure,” he said evenly._

_She hummed._

_When she looked up, Lenny was gone—slinking upstairs into the darkness._

_He dragged himself back down to put dinner on the table at 7pm. On time, to the minute_.

* * *

  
**Now**

Mick had already started on a plate of fries when the others arrived at the roadside diner. Len’s sister came through the door first, suited and booted as always—even on a Friday evening. She shot him one of her dangerous smiles, a little softer now that they knew each other better. Lisa Snart had sharp edges that all her professional layers couldn’t cover up.

“I’m still in his bad books,” she said cheerfully to Mick, as she sat down on the opposite side of the booth.

Len shoved himself in next to Lisa. He’d been keeping his head down since they arrived. At Lisa’s comment, he looked up to raise his eyebrows in his sister’s direction. Then he went right back to focusing on the table, fingers tracing red and white checks across the tablecloth.

“Neutral territory,” Lisa said, breaking the already awkward silence. “Lenny can’t go to Central right now, so halfway between you it is.” She pulled out her phone. “Shawna’s picking me up in a few,” she added airily. “Thought I’d better just check you two weren’t going to kill each other first.”

Weirdness aside, it was probably good that Lisa was here. Mick had no idea what Len’s sullenness was about. He couldn’t think of anything to say, moving his fries around on his plate and sneaking glances at Len, who was still glaring at the table.

When Len let out one of his dramatic sighs, Mick couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

Len’s eyes snapped up to meet his for the first time. _“What?”_

Mick shook his head. “Nothing. You just don’t change.”

And apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Len set his mouth in a line, muttering his order when the waitress came by and then lapsing back into silence.

Lisa put a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Lenny. This won’t work if you’re just gonna sit there brooding.” She looked up at Mick with a sheepish smile. “My brother’s no good at apologising.”

 _“Lisa,”_ Len warned. This time, his glare even had Mick flinching back a little.

Apparently not easily cowed by Len’s moods, Lisa flashed him a defiant grin. Watching them was baffling. Mick was pretty close with his siblings, but these two with their snark and friction were nothing like him and his sister and brothers.

“This wasn’t so weird in the hospital,” Mick said, when the silence dragged on too long again.

“I was worried about you.” Len sat back with his arms folded. He  _still_ wasn’t looking at Mick—who pushed his plate away, stomach churning uncomfortably.

Lisa patted her brother on the shoulder. “And now my dear brother’s gone back to being a sulky jerk.”

Len turned on Lisa, slapping the edge of the table in front of him sharply enough that she blinked. _“Enough,_ Lisa!”

She raised her hands, but she was unfazed, rolling her eyes indulgently at him. “Fine, fine. I’ll shut up.”

Len’s head drifted back in his chair as he shifted his glare to the ceiling.

And Mick was _done_ with this. “You know you didn’t have to come, right?”

He got a brief glance and a nod at that. “Right. You’re right. Sorry.”

Mick felt his eyebrows go up at what was probably the first ‘sorry’ he’d ever heard out of Len’s mouth. Given the circumstances, it was safest not to comment on it. “Start again?” he suggested.

Len huffed. The corners of his mouth twitched up. “Yeah, okay.”

Their burgers arrived, with side orders of fries that Mick added to the pile already in front of him.

Len caught Mick’s eye again. “How’s your leg?”

“Better.” He nodded down at his boot splint. “Only wearing this some of the time. Physical therapist thinks I can go back to work in a week, long as I start with desk stuff.”

He was gratified to see Len half-smiling back at him.

Taking that as a cue, Mick said, “So we gonna talk about things, or what?”

Len literally grit his teeth and tipped his chair back. “Guess that’s what we’re here for.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lisa shifting in her seat. He wondered if she was regretting coming along now.

“I miss having you around,” Len said to the ceiling.

Mick attempted not to gape at the unprecedented expression of _feelings_ from Leonard Snart. “Miss having you around too,” he muttered.

Len dropped his chair back to the floor, looked at him, and held his gaze. “Can we try this again? I’m not saying—a partnership. Not yet. I want back in your life, though.” His look was pleading, full of more sincerity than Mick was used to from this asshole.

Mick stared back at him blankly.

Len’s brow furrowed.

“There’s a hell of a lot we need to sort out before I can do that,” Mick said. “You lied to me, Len. And then you gave up on me and ran away, like our partnership was nothing to you.” He squinted at the fingers of his right hand doing an involuntary _tap tap tap_ on the edge of his plate. “I don’t know if I can trust you again.”

Len went still for a minute. Then, in one agile movement, he pushed his chair back—Mick winced as it squeaked against the floor—and stood up. “Keys,” he grunted at Lisa, holding out his hand for them. “Shawna’s picking you up, right?”

Lisa scowled. “Yes, but—”

“Keys, Lisa!”

She sighed, but grabbed them from the table and dropped them into his hand.

And then he was gone, leaving Mick aggravating his whiplash, looking between Lisa and her brother’s retreating back.

Not this shit again.

“What I don’t get,” Mick said after the stunned silence had cleared, “is why he’s the one who’s mad. He _lied_ to me, Lisa.”

She nodded. “Not defending him.”

“So what did you bring him here for?”

Lisa pouted like a kid, incongruously blood-red lips pursing. “He wants back into your partnership. He’s just too much of a mess to know how to get there.”

“Well, he’s got some funny ways of showing it.”

She shrugged. “I pressured him to come. Should probably have left him to figure it out.” She glanced at Mick. “Didn’t want it to take him another year.”

There was a dying fly on the windowsill behind him. For a moment, its intermittent buzz and Lisa’s steady chewing were the only things he could hear.

“Why did he leave?” he asked, wondering where that question had come from.

Lisa raised her eyebrows at her plate. “You _never_ tell him I told you this.”

Mick nodded.

She sighed and took another bite of burger. “I think he was afraid,” she said, after a minute. “He was gonna have to face up to all the shit he’d messed up, to what he’d done to you… I think he left before you had the chance to leave him first.” She shrugged. “You hardly reacted well when you found out.”

“He lied to me,” he said again. It felt like a weak protest, suddenly.

There was a serious challenge in her look. “That an excuse for holding him down and making him think you were gonna hit him?”

Mick blinked at what felt like a 360° turn. “I—That’s not what—” He swallowed, dropping his eyes away from her intense gaze. “He can hold his own in a fight.”

“Yeah. That wasn’t a fight.” Lisa was still staring at him. “Mick, you do know about—” She scrunched her face up and shook her head. “Never mind. Not my secret to tell. Just, you know. He was scared, all round.”

Mick shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. “This is a big fucking mess,” he said when he’d finished chewing.

“So, what—you’re done?”

He shook his head. “I just don’t know how we’re gonna get past all of this.”

Out in the car park, a horn sounded. “Well—” she swallowed her final mouthful, “you’re probably gonna have to have a real conversation with him, for starters.” She stood up, brushing off her hands. “Can’t blame a girl for trying. Thanks for the food, Mick.” She clapped his shoulder lightly as she passed, and paused with her hand there, narrowing her eyes at him. “He needs you.”

Mick shook his head again. “He’s fixed up his life.”

Shrugging and grabbing up her bag from her seat, she flashed another of those dangerous smiles, all teeth and invisible claws. “Him and me have only got each other. We look after each other. That’s what family do.” And then she was gone.

Mick sat back in his seat, trying to puzzle out what she meant with that. Freaks, the both of them, he thought, and finished his fries.

* * *

“One sec!” Mick yelled at the persistent knock at the door, putting down the dishcloth on the kitchen counter. The knocking didn’t stop. He turned off the water and yelled again. “All right! Don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m there!”

As soon as the door opened, his visitor was already stumbling forward, covered in blood, and Mick had his firefighter-trained reflexes to thank for catching him before he went down. “Oh my god. _Len.”_

“Hi, Mick,” he groaned.

Fifteen minutes later, the jackass was getting stitched up on Mick’s couch.

“Oww, you fucker,” Len said. “I think you’re killing me.”

Sitting in front of him on the coffee table, Mick pulled another stitch through Len’s left shoulder and glared hard. He didn’t know why he was so pissed, but his former partner was on his couch, sallow and still bleeding. Mick didn’t need to know who exactly he was going to kill, but it was going to be someone.

But he pretended not to be reassured that Len was talking in full sentences now, looking less and less like he was about to keel over. “I’m not the one who’s refusing to go to the hospital,” Mick said. “You’re lucky I’ve started my EMT training. Stop fucking moving.” At Len’s pained grimace, he added, “Sorry.”

Len stiffened his shoulder and swigged another drink from the whiskey bottle Mick had brought over. “Not your fault,” Len said. “Mine, I think.” His lousy attempt at a grin faltered. “Mick, I’m in trouble.”

 _“Really?_ And here I was thinking you got yourself stabbed for _fun.”_ The more Mick talked to him, the better Len looked. It was calming Mick down, too, so he carried on. “Could you try to keep the blood off my couch? I just stripped this thing and cleaned the covers.”

Len started to laugh, then cut off with a cough. “Oh god, Mick, don’t do that.”

“Well then, stop being an asshole, and tell me what you’re talking about.” He glared at him again. “I get hurt and then you do? This ain’t a coincidence, is it?”

Len shook his head. “Don’t think so.” His hand ghosted up to just below his shoulder. “Santinis,” he said on a flat note. “They’ve been watching me for a while.”

“Why the hell would they—” Watching Len failing to meet his eyes, Mick’s brain caught up. He dropped the roll of bandages on the table. “You worked for the _Santinis?”_

It wasn’t so much who they were, as what they could do to Len, that was making Mick’s hands shake.

“Among other people.” Len shrugged. “Oh, quit looking at me like that. I stopped playing their little errand boy, they got pissed, you know how it is.” He flinched under the stitch. “Fuck!”

“You could have gone to a nice hospital and got some nice anesthetic,” Mick griped, but he pulled the next stitch through a little more gently.

“They were tailing me through the city.” Len coughed again. “Guy got the jump on me with a knife, then he was gone.”

Mick’s hand was still shaking. He paused, needle hovering above Len’s shoulder, until he could get it under control. “Can I kill ‘em?” he asked. It came out as a growl.

Len laughed. “Good luck with that.” He ran a hand over his head. “Coming here was stupid—”

Mick picked up the roll of bandages off the table, just so he could slam it back down. “Yeah, lemming brain, it was! The hell were you thinking? I thought you were in witness protection.”

“I am.”

He went to reply, and Len put up a hand to quiet him. Mick growled— _god,_ the asshole was frustrating—but he let him talk.

“Not like I trust the cops for anything. Especially not to protect me.” Len shrugged, just his right shoulder, with exaggerated nonchalance. “Been keeping an eye on the Santinis myself. I wanted to be sure, before I went squealing to anyone. My phone’s been tapped, I think, ever since…” He trailed off with a pained sigh that wrenched at Mick’s insides.

“Uh… What?” Mick shifted off the coffee table and slid in next to Len on the sofa. “You’re gonna explain this shit better, and you’re gonna do it now.”

Len nodded and waved the empty whiskey bottle at him. “You got a beer?”

He grabbed two from the fridge and sat back down. “How’s that feeling now?” He nodded at Len’s shoulder. Some of the anger that he couldn’t explain was fading, as long as he kept looking at his friend.

Moving his shoulder experimentally, Len hissed a bit, but nodded. “Better. Could be worse.”

Mick reached a hand out, very carefully. He made a show of checking the stitches, but let his hand linger there longer than necessary.

“I’m sorry. For causing you yet more trouble,” Len said, catching his eye. And, damn, he really did look like he was. “Shouldn’t have come here…”

Covering his mouth with his hand, Mick attempted to hide a laugh.

“Wow, way to ruin my apology,” Len griped, like he was actually hurt.

He grinned. “Ah, don’t mind me. I just don’t think I heard you say that word before this week, and now I’ve heard it twice in a few days. Looks like it hurts.”

“It _does,”_ Len protested, grinning back.

“And yeah, of course you should have come here, you freak.” Mick sat back and took a swig of his beer. “What’s going on? And what’s this about it involving me?” Meeting Len’s narrowing eyes across the couch, he shrugged and said, “You were rambling when you first got here.”

Len settled back, hand still on his shoulder. “Yeah, okay. This is why I’m here. Half of why, anyway.”

His breathing was starting to turn labored, and Mick put a hand on his arm, ever so lightly. “Maybe you should get some rest and we can figure it out later.”

A hand came up. “No, just listen. The car crash. Mick, I think that was the Santinis, too.”

Mick hadn’t noticed the metallic smell of blood until right that second. He’d been hanging onto Len’s spattered shirt without realising it. He put it down on the table, slowly. _“My_ car crash?”

Len gave a small, tired nod.

Mick stared at him for a minute. He pushed himself up off the couch. “You put me in danger?” he asked, low and quiet. “When my _son_ could have been with me?”

Len went wide-eyed, shaking his head as much as he could move it. “Mick, I had no clue they were interested in you. Not till after the crash.”

Mick felt his hands come up to his head, took a shuddery breath. _Ethan..._

“And then yesterday—” Len snorted a nasty laugh. “You know you’re in trouble when the Santinis tell you things straight. Told me to come to Central and pay them off. Or they’d hit more people I cared about.” And he was right back to playing it cool, raising one hand in a shrug like he didn’t care if he lived or died. “I came, said I couldn’t afford all of what they’re asking for, then they gave me a warning…” He gestured at the stitched wound. “You get the jist.” He caught Mick’s eye and looked away again.

Glaring, Mick sat back down. “You _have_ told the cops now, yeah?”

Len gestured at his shoulder. “Been busy. I‘ll call my contact in the morning.”

Mick raised a finger, jabbing it into Len’s good shoulder. “If you so much as _suspected_ …”

He had his hands up again. “I didn’t, I swear. I wouldn’t have paid your bill if I’d known, in case they could have, oh I dunno, traced it…”

Mick held his gaze. Eventually, he sighed and nodded. “Well, here’s another fine mess you got us into, Lenny.”

“I know.” He sighed. “Does it help if it’s all just one mess?” His grin oozed charm, and Mick wanted to hate him, but he wasn’t even close. He chuckled. He’d... missed him.

Len’s eyes were drifting around the clean apartment. “Place looks good.”

Mick nodded. “I need to move, really. But yeah. I’m getting there.”

They shared a smile for a moment.

“So,” Mick said. “You bailed.”

Len looked at him in confusion for a second before he remembered. “Right. The diner.” Mick’s eyes drifted down to Len’s hands. He was wringing them. “I shouldn’t have walked out,” he muttered.

“Could have been smoother about it,” Mick said, but he was smirking.

Len regarded him with scrunched eyebrows. “You’re not mad?”

He attempted a scowl, but he wasn’t really feeling it. “‘Course I’m mad. You’re a fucking dolt, Lenny. Never got a clue what you want or how to say it, do you?” He glared harder at Len’s choked laugh. “Something funny about that, asshole?”

“No.” But Len was looking him in a strange way, taking a deep breath. “God, I’ve missed you, Mick.” He looked right at him—a rare thing. “I want you back in my life.”

Mick froze and gaped at him a bit. “Len. Look at you. Ah, hell,” he scoffed, “look at _me_. We started sorting out our lives, buddy.”

“Yes. And I want you _in_ my sorted life, you dick.” Len was picking at the label of his bottle. “Not saying I didn’t screw up. I know I did. Shouldn’t have lied to you. But…”

“Yeah,” Mick said, drawling out the sound even longer than Len would. “That mess of an apology’s part of the problem, Len.” Mick sighed. “Y’know, you might have been the worst thing that ever happened to me.” He looked up at a stricken Len, and got an irresistible urge to reach out for him. So he did, clapping him lightly on the back. “You were the _best_ thing that ever happened to me, too, you jackass.” Len rewarded him with a wistful smile. “But I don’t know if I can do both of those at once. I just—don’t know yet.”

The silence he got in reply hung heavy in the room.

Mick leant back into the couch. Len had kindly stopped bleeding on it, at last. “Look. I’m going out of town for a few weeks. Helping Amaya and Ethan get settled in Star City for her new job. Gonna be staying in their house. Your sister lives there, right?”

Len nodded, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, but what—”

“I’ll clear it with Amaya first, but you could come over. Hang out.”

Len raised an eyebrow. “For what purpose, exactly?”

The fucker had gone all defensive and cagey again, and Mick sighed. “Quit that, Len.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Mick snickered, with a shrug at Len’s flimsy glare. “For the _purpose_ of—I miss my friend.” He cast a sneaky glance Len’s way, something inside twisting with missing, homesickness. “I ain’t saying I want a partnership again. Not yet. But I… I want you around again. If you want to.”

Len nodded slowly at his beer bottle. “And after that?”

“After that, maybe we stay in touch. Call. You know.”

There was a hint of a smile on Len’s face. “Okay.”

“Oh, Ethan’ll be around—on break from school. I’ll be watching him, daytimes. That good with you?”

“Sure.” Len grinned. “Hey, d’you hear I met him at the hospital?”

Mick felt his face break out in that smile he got every time his kid was mentioned. “Yeah? You two get along?”

“I guess? Eventually. First he damn near knocked me down, then said I was a stranger so he didn’t like me.”

Mick beamed wider. “That’s my kid.”

Len laughed, shaking his head. It was good to see him smile.

“Want some food?” Mick offered, not waiting for a reply. As he got up, he caught a glimpse of Len out of the corner of his eye—sliding down on the sofa. He twisted back around just in time to catch him. With careful, gentle hands, he helped him to lie back on the sofa. “Woah, buddy. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

Len blinked slowly. “Think it’s just the shock. The adrenaline’s wearing off. It’s fine,” he slurred sightly.

Mick sat back down on the coffee table, letting his hand drift across Len’s back. “You should sleep, yeah?”

“Maybe just for a bit…”

“Lemme get you some blankets,” Mick said, moving to get up.

“I’m good. Stay,” murmured an already-drifting Len, his eyes closing.

Mick sat down again.

He didn’t move for a long time, just keeping watch over his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thette is the one to credit for the character insight that Mick and Len--probably in any universe--are both the best and worst thing that ever happened to each other.


	10. Not Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, when you reconnect with a friend it can feel like you were never apart.
> 
> _Mick pointed up. “Cassiopeia.” Screwing up his face towards another part of the sky, he added, “Ursa Minor... Those are the only ones I can see this time of year. Can find you Orion and a few others in a month or so.” He huffed. “If you stay around.”_   
>  _…Oh._   
>  _“I’ll be around,” Len said in a near-whisper._   
>  _Mick nodded, eyes wide at the sky._

**_22 Years Ago_ **

_“It’s an art, fire is,” Mick said._

_Len watched as Mick, already consumed, formed the pile of kindling into a work of sculpture. A hoard of logs and sticks was waiting there for woodshop class, back in a forgotten corner of the yard behind the education building. Just left out in the open for the taking. Yet again Len marveled at how this fucking place was run._

_He hovered by the wall, staying vigilant for inevitable unwanted attention. Mick had been been a smouldering, choleric mess for days, and Len had finally got an answer out of him one day when he’d found him rocking in the corner of their cell. Len didn’t really care, but he was sick of living with a crazy cellmate. The screws just needed to hold off for long enough to give Mick a few minutes with the fire he’d been craving. Len would make sure they did._

_But his eyes kept flickering back to Mick. Len didn’t remember anything in his cursed life ever having captivated him like that fire did for Mick. It was kind of beautiful._

_He sprawled himself against the wall. “So why not do real art with it?”_

_Mick snorted. “No one makes art with fire.”_

_“Bet they do.”_

_He scoffed. “Even if they do, no one makes money off that.”_

_“So?”_

_A glance was lifted in Len’s direction, just briefly. “Thought you were all about how to make the most money with the least effort.”_

_Len raised a finger in the air. “One, that’s me, not you.” Another finger joined it. “Two, you know there are ways to make a living from fire, right?”_

_Most of Mick’s attention was consumed with the pyre he was building, but he allowed another, almost interested look in Len’s direction. “Like what?”_

_“Firefighting.”_

_Mick laughed, his hand pausing above the sticks so that he didn’t knock over the whole pile. “Me, a firefighter?” He shook his head. “You’re as unhinged as they say you are, Snart.” Still laughing, he turned back to his handiwork._

_“Why not?” Len asked, but Mick had clearly stopped listening._

_He was lighting the magical first spark. His promethean creation took on a mystical life of its own, and Mick lit up with it, dazzling and glorious._

* * *

_  
_ **Now**

Lisa let him stay with her. Begrudgingly.

(“I literally just moved in with Shawna. Are you trying to kill my sex life?”

“Oh my _god_ do I not need to hear about that, sis. Shut up and give your poor brother a room in his hour of need.”

“Fine, but only because I love you and want to see you happy. You can have the guest bedroom where we keep that grimy old aquarium and the mountain bikes.”)

And so it was that, two weeks after the—stabbing incident, Len parked his bike outside an unremarkable suburban house. The sounds of a child’s laughter were filtering out through the open front door. Apparently it was the kind of suburb where you could do _that,_ and Len snorted with derision at the thought. He looked warily up at the house for a moment. Then, taking a breath, he climbed the steps that led up to the open door.

The front door led straight into the living room, and he paused at the threshold, not wanting to interrupt. They hadn’t heard Len come in.

Mick was on the floor with his son, an enormous Jenga tower teetering in front of them.

Ethan looked up. For a second his eyes darted away again, seeking his father’s. But Mick was focused, eyebrows deeply furrowed, on the Jenga block he was trying to push out of the stack with a wobbly hand. Ethan looked back at Len and gave him a crooked smile. “Hi, Mr Snart.”

Len took a step inside. “Hey, Ethan. Guess I’m not a stranger anymore?”

“Nah, you’re a friend of my dad’s.” Mick aimed an inelegant prod at a single wooden brick, and the tower collapsed. “Da-ad!” Ethan shrieked, clapping his hand on the floor in a fit of explosive giggles.

Mick, who still hadn’t looked up at Len, folded his arms in mock offense and glared at his son. “Don’t you laugh at me. Or else I’ll—” He reached around behind Ethan’s back and tickled him. A stranger might have mistaken it for careless roughness, but Len watched Mick stay gentle, saw him pull back the second the kid’s laughing eyes took on a tinge of overwhelm. Ethan relaxed again, still giggling.

At last Mick looked up at Len, and something in his face softened. “Hi,” he said. He nudged Ethan with a gentle elbow. “You know Len, don’t you, Squirt?”

Ethan nodded as he started placing one painstaking brick on top of another. “I know Mr Snart from the hospital,” he said. “You were sick, remember?”

“I remember.” With an eyebrow raise at Len, Mick said, “You gonna stand there in the cold all day? Shut the door and sit down.” He pointed at the couch next to them.

Len laughed under his breath and did as he was told.

Ethan was struggling with the bricks a little. Len held back from offering help, remembering something Mick had said about hand-eye coordination being a bit tricky for his kid, and that Ethan was sensitive about it.

Mick snuck a sly look up up at Len, then turned back to his son. “My guess is, Len never played Jenga. He had a deprived childhood, y’know.” Len snorted out loud, raising an eyebrow at Mick, who just grinned back at him. “I bet you could beat him at Jenga, no trouble.”

Ethan stopped and stared at Len. “You _never_ played? Want to help build the tower?”

Len dropped to his knees on the floor. “Ethan, your father doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You know what I do for a living?” The kid shook his head, wide-eyed, pulling back from the blocks. “I’m a civil engineer—learning to be.” Len made a questioning gesture at the blocks, and Ethan nodded. Len started stacking them in a neat pattern. “Basically, I build stuff. And _I_ bet I know more about knocking things down than your dad does. So whose bet are you taking, kid?”

“Can’t fix his own kitchen cabinets, though,” Mick added helpfully.

The nine-year-old had knocked the engineer’s tower down in six moves.

“Keep hitting the books,” Mick advised from the cheap seats.

* * *

For the first few days Len spent with the family, Mick was even quieter than usual. He was—not standoffish, exactly. _Wary._

Which Len was trying not to think about, because the thought made him want to run, and there was going to be none of that.

Something shifted on his third day there, hanging out at the house with Mick and Ethan. Len was maybe a little skittish around the kid at first. He told Mick so, when they were making lunch.

“I like him, but he’s weird,”

Mick made a ‘gimme’ gesture. “Mayonnaise—fridge, top shelf. What’s weirder about him than me?”

Len reached into the fridge and passed the jar over to Mick at the counter, then returned to his spot leaning on the kitchen wall. “You’re the quiet kind of weird. That, I get.” Len winced as Ethan ran past the kitchen door, blasting airplane sound effects. Len was almost regretting giving him the toy plane now. The kid was swinging the thing around the living room, throwing his whole body around behind it with so much enthusiasm that Len feared for Amaya’s ornaments.

Mick stopped making sandwiches long enough to grin at him. “He just takes some getting used to, is all.” He put the bread down, turning to lean against the counter opposite Len. “I found him kinda weird for a long time too,” he admitted in a reflective tone.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mick was watching his own index and middle fingers doing a nervous dance on the countertop. “Then he got diagnosed autistic, and then I did, and—well. Lot of stuff made sense after that.” He snorted. “For both of us.”  

“Does it get difficult?” Len was fighting a memory. _Ten years old. Knowing he was different, somehow. Learning to hide the signs from—people who didn’t like it._

“Sometimes,” Mick said. “Not like it used to, when he was little, but sometimes.” He was watching Ethan through the kitchen door, who was sitting on the living room floor staring at his plane. “You see that? He gets a bit lost in his own world sometimes.” Mick shrugged. “Little things like that, and how he handles life. It’s cool—I just need to be extra aware, you know?”

Len looked at the kid in the other room, who was now examining his plane closely, and nodded.

“Thing is.” Mick grabbed an oven tray of frozen mini pizzas. “I think it’s harder for him.”

On cue, a small voice from the door said, “Dad.” Ethan was holding out his toy plane, anxiety etched into his face. “I think I broke it.”

“Just a sec, buddy,” Mick said, his head halfway into the oven.

The kid was staring at the floor with wide, unhappy eyes. “Want me to take a look?” Len offered.

The kid nodded, coming closer, holding out the plane.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Len just kept his voice calm and reassuring, since he doubted touch from a new person would help. “The wings slide out of place, see?” He slid the loose wing back in to demonstrate. “It’s ‘cause it came in pieces in the box, that’s all.”

Ethan was turning the plane around in his hands, his face still a taut mess of worry. “Did I break it, Dad?”

Mick removed himself from the oven and shut the door. He caught sight of Len with Ethan and smiled. Then he was all about his son, leaning down to scrutinize the plane. “No, you didn’t break it. Did Len show you?” Ethan nodded. Mick took the plane and poked the wing. “See? Steady as a rock.” He knelt down beside his son, who was biting his lip. “You good?” Mick asked quietly, ruffling his hand through his son’s head of curls.

“Don’t know,” Ethan said, even quieter. He was tapping his fingers against his palms in a frantic rhythm.

Len saw Mick notice and pull his son closer. “Everything’s fine, Squirt. You want a stim toy?”

Ethan shook his head into Mick’s chest. “I thought you’d all be mad that I broke the plane.”

Mick chuckled, stroking his son’s back. “Nah. And it ain’t broken. But even if it was, I wouldn’t be mad, ‘kay?”

The kid nodded, his frantic pace stilling a little.

“Hey, you want us to come play with you?”

Ethan took a deep breath and pulled away, taking the plane back from his father. “No, I’m doing my own game right now, Dad.” He glanced towards Len, and said quietly, “Can you and Mr Snart come and be air traffic control people later?”

“Told you to call me Len, kid.”

Ethan frowned at him. “That’s an old man’s name.”

Len barked a laugh, shrugging. “My sister calls me Lenny. So does your dad sometimes. That one better?”

The kid beamed at him, his mood visibly lifting. He waved the plane above his head. “Thanks for fixing my plane, Lenny!” And he was gone, back to the living room to swoop the damn toy around again, accompanied by more obnoxious plane noises.

“That’s definitely your son.” Len looked back to Mick in time to see him wearing an impish grin. “What?”

Shaking his head, Mick said, “You’re good with him.”

Something strange clenched in Len’s chest, briefly. “Never thought there’d be a kid in my life.” There was a gruff edge to his own voice.

Mick’s grin fell away, replaced with a look of empathetic concern. “That a problem?”

In the next room, just beyond the dividing door from the kitchen, the kid was making pilot announcements to airplane passengers. Something about it reminded him of Lisa at the same age, her dolls making superhero rescues from topplingly high Lego towers.

“No,” Len said, trying to resist a smile. “Not a problem.”

* * *

Len couldn’t remember having this much fun in a long time. He helped Mick move in the family’s furniture. (How did a kid as small as Ethan own so much _stuff?_ ) They watched the same Pixar movie, the one with the fish, about four times. And they all went to the beach on the weekend—Amaya too—for a much-needed day off. Mick and Amaya chased their son around in the water while Len stayed firmly attached to a beach chair, and Ethan ate what his father decreed was too much ice cream, though the kid loudly argued that he “could have fit in two more whole ice cream sandwiches.”

It was the next day, Sunday, when Mick practically threw a box at Len and said, “Unpack this on the patio, would you?”

It turned out to be a complex-looking outdoor grill, in pieces. Only an hour later, Len was stepping back to get a satisfied look at the assembled grill, when Mick chuckled behind him. “Look at you with the household maintenance.”

Spinning on his heel, Len smirked at him. “And I only gave up and looked at the assembly instructions online three times.”

He got a chuckle in reply. Mick was casting an expert eye over the grill, running his hands over it. “Hey, Amaya,” he yelled in through the open patio doors. “You got charcoal?”

“I think there’s some in the garage,” she called back.

Mick grinned at Len. “Sunday afternoon cookout?” His eyes were alight with that old flame that Len loved.

“And get the chance to see you play with fire again? Absolutely.”

His friend blinked, shaking his head in confusion. Len just aimed for a cryptic smile.

A couple of hours later, Mick was acting the regular grill chef. “Order up, one burger and one plain fajita for—lessee, um, Eric, is it?” He scrunched his face up. “Can’t read this name.” To his son’s obvious delight, he pointed at Len and added, “Blame the waiter.”

“MINE!” Ethan yelled, grabbing the plated feast out of Len’s hands and running off to the edge of the property to eat it, sitting with his back against a tree.

Amaya sighed and grabbed some salad for him. “Vegetables, Ethan!”

“Eat your greens and grow up big and strong like me, Squirt,” Mick called after them.

Len slouched against the patio table, watching Mick. He was poking at the fire with intense concentration—consumed by it, as always, but with less of the obsession and dissociation Len had seen in him around flames before.

“I can feel you staring,” Mick chided, not turning around.

He chuckled. “Sorry. Just—”

“Yeah?” That time Mick looked around, met his eyes briefly, and turned back to the barbecue.

Len shrugged. “Just... remembering things.”

He saw Mick smile wordlessly at the fire in reply, and thought about asking him some questions. Then Ethan started complaining about how much he hated salad, and Len thought better of his timing.

Len and Mick were at the grill long after the fire had died down, their animated conversation interspersed with comfortable silences. As evening light faded to gray across the garden, Amaya looked thoughtfully between them, turned on a patio light, and said, “Come on, Ethan. Let’s go watch a movie and let your dad and Len chat.”

Then she popped back out with an unexpected bottle of wine and two glasses and said “Don’t get used to it. Get your own next time,” and Mick threw up his hands in mock despair.

It was a mild, clear October night, that still moment before the weather makes a sharp turn towards winter. The kind of evening that made Len think of taking Lisa trick-or-treating. He and Mick ended up sprawled out side-by-side on the lawn, looking up at the stars. Here, just outside the city, the view wasn’t as good as in a certain field outside Keystone, but it was a pretty spectacular night sky all the same.

“Deja-vu,” Mick remarked, with a sly look at Len.

A low chuckle escaped him. “Yeah.” There was something warm and peaceful uncoiling in him, like this was the first time he’d been able to breathe for a year.

Mick pointed up. “Cassiopeia.” Screwing up his face towards another part of the sky, he added, “Ursa Minor.” Len glanced at him in surprise, and he shrugged. “Learnt some of ‘em for Ethan. He likes the stars.”

It was quiet for a minute. Mick’s mouth was working silently, but Len didn’t push him. There was no rush.

Finally Mick added, “Those are the only ones I can see this time of year. Can find you Orion and a few others in a month or so.” He huffed. “If you stay around.”

_…Oh._

“I’ll be around,” Len said in a near-whisper.

Mick nodded, eyes wide at the sky.

* * *

By the end of his two weeks there, Len was surprised how much he had enjoyed his time with Mick’s weird but kind of adorable family. Ethan was an okay kid, he finally concluded, once he’d got used to the noise. And Amaya had been inconceivably sweet to him the whole time. He couldn’t quite figure out why.

On the morning of his last day there, Len was hovering in the living room with his coffee when Mick appeared behind him. “We’re unpacking the last boxes upstairs.”

“Think I’m gonna paint this room,” Len said, looking around at walls faded to a sickly gray. He had twenty-four hours left, and he wanted to achieve _something_ before he went home.

“You’re gonna _what?”_ Mick deadpanned, stepping around to face him with an exaggerated gape. “Are you sick, or something?”

Len rolled his eyes just as dramatically. “Haha. You said you had blue paint, right?”

Mick nodded. “Frost blue. Books say it’s calming, or something. For Ethan.” He shrugged. “Might be a crock of shit, but it’ll be nicer than that gray.”

“Well then. Find me a ladder.”

So Mick did, and Len spent his last day there painting a room. Mick popped in and out at intervals, and Len had a lot of thinking time in between. He thought about being pushed into deals he didn’t want, because he was afraid he would die in juvie and leave his sister alone. About wrong paths chosen, and wasted years. No, maybe not wasted—but not what he wanted out of life. About family, and how much it mattered, and why it had taken him so long to figure that out.

Late in the evening, Mick appeared behind him. “Beer or coffee?”

Halfway up the wall on the ladder, Len didn’t look round. “Thought maybe I’d head to bed soon. Need to get a head start on traffic in the morning. It’s slow going, back to the coast.”

Mick _laughed_. The sound was so incongruous that Len turned around and tilted his head at him. “Uh-uh, asshole. We’re gonna talk for a bit. You know, like normal people. Beer or coffee?”

Len glanced back at the unfinished wall. “Amaya and Ethan?”

“Gone to bed.”

Three walls were complete, but blue paint only covered half the canvas of the fourth once-white wall. He wasn’t _finished._ “Can’t leave it like this.”

Snorting, Mick shook his head. “‘Course you can’t—it’s you. Well, two’ll finish it quicker than one.”

Len chuckled. “This is just because you don’t trust me to fix Amaya’s house, isn’t it?”

“You do have a crappy track record there,” Mick said, sniggering. “C’mon—I got another ladder somewhere. We can do two sides at once.”

When Mick returned, Len was pretending not to be struggling to get the stripes of paint even. “You need new paint rollers. This thing is a piece of crap.”

“Sure, that’s the problem.” Mick leant against the ladder and nodded approvingly at the wall. “Eh, could be worse. We’ll make an engineer outta you yet.”

“Shut up.”

Another ladder went up across the wall from Len’s. Mick grinned at him across the gap. “Race ya.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea, with paint around. Amaya’ll be delighted when she gets up and her beige carpet has little blue speckles all over it.”

A snort. “One, there’s sheets on the floor. Two, you ever get tired of being a snippy bastard?”

Len turned his head slowly, calculating distance in his head. He looked down at the sheets that were, indeed, laid out beneath them both. Then he coolly picked up a brush, reached into his paint pot, and _flicked_ a glob of paint at Mick. It landed square on the side of his face.

A wide-eyed head turned on Len just as slowly. “I can’t believe you just did that.” He wiped his face, screwing up his eyes in a way that Len could only describe as _cute—_ though he wouldn’t say that out loud.

“I’d reply to that, but I’d only be a snippy bastard,” Len said, peering at his side of the wall.

“Well I’d throw paint back at you, but we’re in my ex-wife’s house.” Mick pointed his paint roller at him. “Gonna get you back, though.”  

Len felt a smirk forming. “Keep telling yourself that.”

It was a couple of hours later when Mick finally slammed his paint roller down. “Okay, we did your wall, jackass. _Now_ will you have coffee with me?”

Len looked at the _almost_ finished wall. “It could do with another coat.” He caught sight of Mick’s open, hopeful face. “Sure. Coffee.”

They talked till 3 in the morning, about all kinds of things. Mostly filling each other in on the year they’d missed.

At 2 a.m. Len admitted something he hadn’t said out loud to anyone yet.

“When I got back into college they did a bunch of testing on me.” He stared hard at the bright FDCC design on the side of his coffee mug. “I got ADHD.” He snorted. “Getting actual help with it. With studying, you know.”

Mick blinked at him, wide-eyed. “How’s it going?” was all he asked.

Len nodded slowly. “Learning how to concentrate better on the books. End of last semester, I had a 3.8 GPA.”

His friend said nothing, just half-smiled at him with a look of astonishment. And something else, like he was—proud?

A bit later, Mick said in a strange tone, “I guess you really gotta go, huh?”

Before Len realised it, he had turned his head to look at him in surprise. He winced, the too-plush couch back making his neck ache. “Got a job to get back to.”

“That started already?”

“Tuesday.”

Mick nodded. “How you gonna fit it around your college stuff?”

“Life’s pretty quiet right now,” Len admitted, rubbing his neck. “I got time.” He let the silence stretch away for a moment, then risked a question. “How’s the firefighting training?”

The look that crossed Mick’s face was something to behold. “Great. Really great. I, uh—I kind of love it.”

“Good.”

Mick grinned at him, and then his smile slipped. “You’re gonna keep in touch, aren’t you, buddy?”

Len glanced up at the wall opposite. It was almost there, but there were missing chunks out of reach, and it needed one more coat of paint.

But not everything could be fixed in two weeks.

“Yeah, Mick. We’ll talk, yeah?”

Mick covered a relieved smile with his coffee mug. “Yeah.”

* * *

  
A few weeks of letters—actually mailed, now—and phone calls followed.

“Things calmed down on the Santini front?” Mick asked one day. He was mixing ingredients for a cake in his kitchen, with two already finished on the counter next to him. The kids’ center was doing a bring-and-share thing. Last time there had been more kids than cake, and Mick wasn’t going to let that happen again.

On the other end of the line, Len said, “Looks like it. Cops say they’re dealing with it.”

A bowlful of melted chocolate went into to his mixture. Mick held the phone tight between his ear and shoulder. “And you trust 'em?”

He could almost hear Len rolling his eyes. “Hardly. They’re cops. But I got my own contacts with their ears to the ground. Does seem pretty quiet.”

Forgetting that Len couldn’t see him, Mick nodded. “One sec,” he said, and turned on the electric mixer.

“Jesus, Mick, give a guy a warning,” Len griped when he turned it off.

Just a couple of days later, Mick called Len in the middle of the night.

“What’s up?” Len’s sleepy voice asked.

Sitting on his kitchen floor, shaking hard, Mick gripped the phone like a lifebuoy. “Sorry,” he managed to get out, after a second or two.

“Don’t apologize.” Len’s voice was low, soothing. “What happened?”

Another pause, longer this time. Len stayed silent, giving him time. Eventually Mick said, “I just got home. Work was loud and now it’s—quiet here.” He couldn’t find any more words. Ethan had been due to stay that weekend, but one of his classmates was having a birthday party. Amaya had been so sorry she’d forgotten. Mick had meant it at the time, when he told her it wasn’t a problem. “Mostly the quiet is fine, but it’s...”

“I thought things were getting better, with the anxiety?” Len was still using that gentle tone that sounded so alien from him. Mick had only ever heard him use it when he was having a rough go of it. 

Mick huffed a quiet laugh, his hands shaking in his lap. “Better, yeah. Some things just are what they are, y’know?” He wasn’t drunk enough for this conversation. Hadn’t been for a long time.

Len was quiet on the other end of the line. This was probably too many feelings for him. Mick gave a shaky chuckle at the thought.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Mick sighed. “I miss you, asshole.”

There was still no response, but Mick could almost hear Len thinking.

Then his friend expertly moved the conversation into safer, more calming territory.

It was only the next day, halfway through a twenty-four-hour shift at work, when Mick was surprised by a cryptic text from Len.

_I’m in the neighborhood. Can I drop by your apartment?_

Mick frowned. The thought buzzed through his distracted head, just for a second, that something about that wasn’t a good idea. Then the fire captain was yelling something at him over the roar of fire trucks and alerts, and he quickly shot back a reply that he’d be home sometime after 6.

_You can go in. I leave a spare key for when Amaya brings Ethan over. Under doormat._

He grinned at the thumbs-up emoji, then got back to a busy shift and forgot about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the flashback at the beginning of the chapter, both Len and Mick use (mild) slurs for people who experience mental illness. They're 14 and 16 years old, and don't know any better, and I think it's in character - but I couldn't find a way to underline in the narrative that these are not helpful terms. 
> 
> Thanks so much to the readers who are sticking with this story - I so appreciate it, because I'm enjoying writing it _so_ much.  <3 We're nearing the end - about three chapters to go. Updates might slow down a little bit now, as I'm fighting work deadlines, but it's all drafted and they will keep coming! 
> 
> [Moodboard I made for this story](https://sophiainspace.tumblr.com/post/179558139449/moodboard-for-mending-wall-a-coldwave-neighbour). 
> 
> I love comments and they keep me writing! Thank you to all the great readers who've commented on previous chapters.


	11. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Len was laid out on a stretcher. His skin was blue. He wasn’t moving. Not—Was he even breathing?_

**_22 Years Ago_ **

_The sun was bright in Mick’s eyes in the juvie yard, where he sat on the bench at the edge of the basketball court. He lowered his eyes, kept his head down. Mick always kept his head down._

_On the other side of the court, yelling and jeering suggested someone was about to get pummeled over there._

_Mick didn’t get up._

_His brother and sister had visited that morning. It was the first time any of his family had been to see him since he’d got here. And he would have promised six-year-old Molly anything—that sweet, tiny little girl he’d dragged out of a house on fire—when she asked, “You’re coming home soon, aren’t you, Mickey?”_

_He had looked into her tiny, hopeful face, and promised her that, yes, he was._

_The noise intensified. But it wasn’t like a fight was anything unusual, around here._

_Mick didn’t get up._

_One of the gang moved to aim a kick, and Mick caught sight of the skinny kid, curled up on the ground. His new roommate—Snart, was it?_

_Well, the little punk had wandered in like he owned the place. In the two days since he got here, he’d made enemies of half the gang leaders and most of E Block. Might be good for him to learn how things worked around here._

_He gripped the sides of the bench and stayed very still._

_It had been three months since the night Mick had stumbled back into a burning house to pull his brother and sister out of the fire his own hands had started, black smoke coiling around his lungs, white-hot flames branding his sides. Since his father had staggered out behind them, and his mother—hadn’t. Two months and two weeks since his father had screamed at him across a courtroom that he never wanted to see Mick again._

_He had dreams, sometimes, where he’d killed them all and he’d been left alone. Woke up choking on empty darkness._

_He didn’t know if he could make it right. He just knew he had to try. Right now, that meant keeping his head down and getting back to Molly and Aiden as quick as he could. He’d figure out everything else after that._

_More yelling, and he looked up again. Sunlight glinted off—something, held tight in the hand of one of the kid’s attackers. A shiv?_

_Mick didn’t get up._

_Instead, he raised his eyes to meet those of a passing guard, who shifted direction to break up the fight._

_By the time the screws got there, Snart was lying gray and bleeding on the ground. There was a ruckus while the gangs dispersed under threat of solitary, then the sounds of medics being called. He didn’t see if they caught any of the fuckers who doled out the beating, but he doubted it._

_He chewed on a nail, drummed his fingers along the bench, and found himself wondering if the kid was dead. Like it mattered._

* * *

_  
_ **Now**

When the incident call came in for his neighborhood, it barely registered with Mick. It was a one-alarm fire—nothing too unusual. It wasn’t until the captain was yelling out the briefing that he recognized the address.

He wasn’t even on the duty roster that day. He was still only part-time for field duty, thanks to his foot, maintaining equipment most afternoons.

He was checking a fitting at the side of an out-of-commission fire truck when the orders started filtering through. It was always so loud and hot in the station. Mick had mostly got used to it, over the years, but sometimes it still took him a minute to process the instructions that were yelled out to the firefighters as they swarmed into the trucks.

And then the battalion chief was calling out the address of his building.

His apartment.

_Len._

Mick pulled out his phone from his back pocket. It shook in his hands as he fumbled desperately through his messages. _Nothing._

He was already pulling his uniform on as he sprinted to the battalion chief’s side. She liked him—she would let him go. “Ma’am, you gotta let me take this one.”

She waved him off. “You’re not on the roster, Rory. Go back to work.”

 _“Ma’am,”_ he insisted, his hands still trembling at his sides. “You don’t—that call is for my apartment, ma’am.”

She frowned. “Damn. Sorry to hear that, but the team will do their jobs.”

“Please,” Mick said, hearing a desperate tone in his own voice. “My friend’s at my place. I—Please.”

Something on his face must have persuaded her. “Go,” she said. _“Now.”_ Mick’s shaking legs somehow got him to the side of the truck, and she was shouting after him. “But if the lieutenant doesn’t let you in the building, then he doesn’t!”

In the truck, against the drone of more instructions, Mick kept his head down. He always kept his head down. The truck bumped and screeched its way through the city, sirens roaring, and 60mph had never felt so much like a crawl. Mick couldn’t get enough air, fighting to keep it from showing. This wasn’t the time for a panic attack, for fuck’s sake. He knew how to do his job. Everything else was—not important right now.

The firefighters scrambled out onto the sidewalk. And, _fuck._ Thick, black smoke was gushing out of his third-floor window.

The first team had arrived ahead of them. They were already swarming around the scene, assessing the chaos.

A co-worker whose name Mick couldn’t remember—why couldn’t he _think?_ —stormed up to him. “Personal involvement, Rory, for fuck’s sake!” she snapped. “Why are you here?”

Mick bit down on a snarled retort. The lieutenant appeared behind them. “Just the briefing, please, Avalos,” he said in his clipped, English tone. Mick’s brain haltingly supplied his name—Hunter. Okay. He was good. He’d get Len out.

_Len._

“Fire seems to be contained to the third floor, sir,” Avalos was saying. “No immediate signs of structural issues. We—”

“There’s a man inside,” Mick snapped.

She stopped talking—her head snapped round to look at Mick. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Mick shot Lieutenant Hunter a pleading look. “Let me go in with the next team.” He was pulling the last of his protective gear on.

Hunter put a hand on his shoulder, just for a second. “I’m sorry, Rory. Procedure. You can support the EMTs but you’re not going in.”

On a hitched breath, he said, “Sir, but—”

But Hunter was already gone, yelling commands to the team as he jogged towards the building.

“Sir!” Mick called after him. “I have reason to suspect arson. Get an investigations team here.”

“What makes you think that?” Hunter yelled back from the door to the building.

“I’ll explain later!”

And the team disappeared into the building.

Mick swayed on his legs. Shouted orders around him warped into tinny noise. Ahead of him, the burning scene was blurring at the edges. No, _no,_ not now. He was still at an incident—he had a job to do—he wasn’t going to panic…

And then he was on his knees on the ground and he couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t _breathe._

The new EMT was at his side with a bottle of water in a moment. “This was pretty stupid of you, man,” the EMT said. His tone was oddly comforting, soothing, like Mick was one of his accident victims. Wally—that was his name, Mick remembered now—was looking at him funny. “You know someone inside, right?”

“Yeah.”

Wally was sitting cross-legged on the ground next to him—when did that happen?—looking up at the window above them, belching smoke. It was getting _worse._ Were they in yet? Did they have him?

“You need to trust the guys upstairs. And the ones out here.” Wally nodded up to the fire hose being raised from the truck, up into the window, in preparation for instructions from above. He had a hand on Mick’s shoulder. “You want the families of people at the scenes you attend to do that, right?”

Mick nodded. His shaking hands were at his mouth. “They’ll get him out,” he muttered. Hunter was tough to work with, but a good officer, good team leader. He would get Len out... How long had it been since the first fire call?

Mick had seen a lot of fire scenes by now. They always surged past in a rush of adrenaline, a buffer of protocol wrapped around every incident. None of them had ever felt this _slow._

Wally was shouting a conversation with the other ambulance medic over his shoulder. He glanced at Mick. “Gotta go. You gonna be okay?”

Mick nodded. “Are they—is he coming out?”

“Yeah.” Wally narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m declaring you unfit for the rest of your shift. You got emergency training, right?” Mick nodded again. “Okay. You wanna ride in the ambulance? Could use another pair of hands. I’ll clear it with your lieutenant.”

Mick blinked at him. “Huh? I’m okay.”

Wally chuckled. “Dude, you just nearly passed out. You’re really not.”

He did?

But there was no more time for arguing. Shouted orders intensified, and Wally darted back to the ambulance. Mick was fast on his heels when, behind them, three firefighters herded out of the building, carrying—

_Oh god._

Len was laid out on a stretcher. His skin was _blue._ He wasn’t moving. Not—Was he even _breathing?_

For a moment, Mick was frozen to the spot, staring at him. Then he allowed himself to be shoved into the ambulance ahead of Wally. He slumped into a seat at the back, waiting silently for instructions.

Wally and the other EMT were crowding around the patient—around Len. Then they were up and roaring out of there in a flash.

Mick had seen this before—it was as life or death as it got. If they got him to the hospital fast enough, it could be—It could be okay…

He gripped the bar next to him, hard. The medics moved, frantic, around him—he raised his hands to his ears, as low-key as he could. Through blurry eyes, he stared at his unmoving partner. As long as he could see him, it would be okay.

It was going to be okay.

* * *

 

They wouldn’t let him _in_.

“EMTs only, please,” the receptionist said, shoving an arm out to block his way.

He flinched back. “You don’t understand. I know him. I have to go—have to be with—”

“Who are you, please?”

Mick froze.

“You need to tell his sister,” he muttered.

A form was waved in front of him. “Details, please.”

He stumbled onto the reception bench. The clipboard hung limp in his hands, words swimming in front of his eyes.

He put the clipboard down, scrambled for his phone, and told Lisa himself.

Then he let his head slump onto his arms, and didn’t move for a long time.

It was maybe an hour later when Lisa stumbled through the door, her face wan and tight. Without thinking about it, he moved to hug her. She let him. Then she pushed him aside and went to the counter, leaning hard against it.

Behind him, Shawna’s muted voice said, “Hi, Mick.”

He nodded at her. They looked at each other, silent over the beeping and buzzing of equipment, the droning chatter of people walking past. For a second, Mick wanted to grab one of them, wring their fucking necks.

Then the rage passed, replaced by a lead weight in his gut. It didn’t matter.

“Okay,” Lisa said, moving fast towards the door to the main hospital.

“Lise,” Shawna said, nodding in Mick’s direction.

Lisa paused, a question on her face.

Mick blinked at her, shrugging. “They won’t let me in.”

“Why the hell not?” Lisa snapped, turning back to the counter, suddenly looking like she was about to launch herself over it. Shawna moved to put a hand on her arm—Lisa shrugged it off.

Behind the desk, the receptionist repeated, “Who is he?”

Lisa half turned, raising red eyes to meet Mick’s. “He’s family,” she said, more to Mick than to anyone else. “Let him in. Please.”

The receptionist sighed and nodded.

* * *

  
Nothing happened, for several hours.

They waited, in the gray hospital corridor, outside the room where—Len’s room.

Waiting was hell.

Lisa was swinging between extremes. One minute she was shivering, arms wrapped around herself. She looked so—small. The next, she was flipping out at passing staff members. Shawna wasn’t doing much better, making occasional attempts to calm Lisa down, then fading into bleak silences.

Something was flaring, hot and miserable, in Mick’s gut.

When he next looked up at Lisa, she was sitting with her head in her hands, Shawna’s arm around her. And he just _couldn’t._

He escaped around the corner to another corridor. He was slouched against the vending machine when he heard her.

“Mick.”

He twisted around, and then she had him in her arms. _“Amaya,”_ he breathed into her hair. He leaned on her, hard, till she was practically holding him up.

“God, Mick,” she said, her voice choked but soothing. “I’m so sorry.”

“He—” He shook his head against her. “How did you know?”

She pulled away a little, eyes narrowed. “You were right,” she said. “Your captain called us in to investigate.”

He felt his eyes widen. “Arson,” he murmured. “Was it…?” She shook her head quickly, tightly at him, with a _later_ look.

It was too much, and he turned away. She stroked his back as he put his hand across his mouth, forehead against the cool glass of the vending machine. “Docs haven’t said much yet,” he said, muffled through it. “Just that they don’t know what his chances—” He cut himself off again, and something like a sob escaped him. 

Her arms were around him again, and he shuddered against her shoulder. “I'm here,” she murmured.

When he pulled back, her hand still on his shoulder, she said, “I can’t stay, though. I’m sorry. I’m heading up the investigation. I’ll be back, okay?”

He frowned. “Long way out of your area.”

With a sad smile, she said, “I’ll explain soon. Not here.”

He nodded. “Ethan?”

“He’s with a friend’s family. I didn’t tell him about Len.” She frowned. “He’ll only worry.”

Slowly, he nodded again, grabbing her hand. “Thanks for coming, Amaya.”

“Of course.” She kissed his forehead. Then she was gone, leaving him alone in an empty corridor.

* * *

  
“Is he gonna wake up?” Lisa demanded of the doctor. She was red-eyed and angry, leaping out of her seat before the doc had a chance to say a word to them.

Mick was standing a little distance away, by the window. Little mesh tracks blurred the view from outside. He turned around, his back against the windowsill. Just watching.

Shawna was laying a comforting hand on Lisa’s arm. “Lise. Let the doctor talk, ‘kay?”

The doc, who had been giving Lisa a judgmental raised eyebrow, nodded at the seat. “I’m Dr. Snow. You might want to sit down, Ms.—Snart, is it?” She turned to Shawna. “And you’re Dr. Baez, yes? Perhaps I could explain to you—”

“Listen, lady.” Lisa hadn’t sat down again. Shawna’s arm was tightening, all but holding her back. “You’re gonna tell _me_ how my brother’s doing. I don’t need a fancy medical degree for you to tell me if he’s gonna be okay, do I?” Her voice spiked a little with hysteria at the end, masked except to anyone who knew her well.

“Lisa,” Shawna said again, quietly. She looked up anxiously at Mick across the corridor.

He didn’t move.

“Fine,” the doctor said, gesturing to the seats again. “But please, Ms. Snart, sit.”

“Mick." Shawna was pulling Lisa back into her seat. “You too.”

Slowly, Mick took a step forward. And another.

When he passed Len’s room, he forced himself not to look.

The doc smiled at him as he skulked into a seat, kept his eyes low. “You’re Mr. Rory, right? The firefighter who brought him in?” He nodded. “Okay. Well—” She paused, consulting a chart.

“Doc,” he said, the brief silence already unbearable. “I know fires, yeah? It was smoke inhalation. That’s bad.”

“Yes.” She glanced over her clipboard. Lisa had her arms wrapped around herself, her head dropped against one shoulder. “The next twenty-four hours are crucial,” the doc continued. “Either he wakes up, or he doesn’t. If he does, he’ll likely be okay, with treatment.”

“What are his chances?” Mick said, not caring how blunt he sounded. She wasn’t going to say unless he asked.

The doctor looked at him in surprise, but didn’t object. “Right now? 50-50.”

Lisa made a quiet sound. It might have been the worst thing Mick had ever heard.

She got up, dashing down the corridor, Shawna following close behind.

Mick focused on breathing.

Eyebrows furrowed, the doc was taking him in. “Who are you to him?”

Finally, Mick raised his head.

The door to the room opposite was open. Len was so still. He was pale, his face a little swollen, but he could have looked a hell of a lot worse. It almost looked like he was just sleeping.

Eyes half-shut, Mick let himself drift back to Len’s apartment, the week the heating failed, both of them huddled under the blankets. Len had fallen asleep first. Mick lay next to him, just watching his chest rise and fall. That was it—the moment Mick had known that he never wanted to go a day without seeing his partner’s face again.

A few short months later, Len was gone, and Mick never got to tell him.

It was another moment of perfect clarity, right there in a sterile, gray hospital with machines beeping in the background and, somewhere not far away, the sound of someone crying. Years later, Mick would look back on this as the moment he knew he was never going to let Len go again.

“I’m family,” Mick answered the doctor.

Standing up, he walked slowly, step after painful step, into Len’s room. He pulled out a chair and sat down next to his bed.

He took his partner’s hand, and he didn’t let go.

When Len opened his eyes, twenty-four hours later, Mick was still right there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are <3
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://sophiainspace.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SophiaCatherin5).


	12. Make The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len wakes up and starts making plans. Including a plan for his life with Mick... and another that might be a bit more risky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene of this chapter has a minor medical intervention - it's not graphic, but see notes at the end for what to avoid if you'd prefer not to read that!

For thirty-six hours, Mick barely moved from the chair by Len’s bed.

Whenever Lisa came in, he sidled over to a corner—to much tutting, though he wouldn’t budge from his spot against the radiator. She needed time with her brother. She hadn’t said much, but there was shuttered fear in her eyes, even now that he was awake.

Mick left them alone sometimes, wandering the hospital like he was looking for something. He felt weirdly like he was being torn in two, tired of too much chaos in his life, but desperately not wanting to give up the person who brought it. To be fair, he thought, as he sat on a hard chair in an empty corridor, it wasn’t Len’s fault.

It was a little bit Len’s fault.

But Mick couldn’t stay away long. As soon as Len was alone, he was right back at his side again.

Len couldn’t speak for the first few hours after he woke up, a tube in his throat and machines hooked up to him all over the place. As much as he could, Mick didn’t let go of his hand.

A little while after he woke up, Mick felt a squeeze back. Len grasped his hand tight, blue eyes reaching for Mick’s with a determined gaze.

Machines beeped and hissed around them as the medics slowly weaned Len off the breathing tube, over the next day. Mick stared around at the awful equipment, wanting to rip every needle out of him. Listening to his every labored breath, he—god, he wanted to make someone pay for this.

But that wasn’t why he was there.

So he sat, and smiled when Lisa made bad jokes—the Snarts had some damn silly ways of cheering each other up—and didn’t say a word.

Not until Len did.

It was just him and Len in the room, late the next night. Mick blinked out of a doze, rubbing the cramp out of his neck. On the other side of Len’s bed, the doc—Snow, wasn’t it?—was leaning over Len, talking to him quietly. She noticed Mick and allowed him a little smile. “This might hurt,” she was telling Len, her no-nonsense voice softening a little. “I’m taking his breathing tube out, Mr Rory.”

Mick got the message, grabbing Len’s hand again.

The doc counted him up. On three, Len squeezed his hand _hard,_ coughing as the tube came out painfully slowly. Mick grimaced in sympathy. Snow was right there, hovering over him with an oxygen mask, but Len was waving her away. The stubborn fool was already breathing—strained, but regular enough that the doc nodded. She barked an order at the nurse at the door, then turned back to Len. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you. As soon as you need that mask you’ll get it,” she warned, to Len’s nod, and then she was gone.

Mick was still gripping his hand. “How you doing?” he asked.

“Kinda feel like death,” Len croaked, following it up with another round of coughing. Mick winced in sympathy. The noise had the nurse popping his head back around the door. “Can I sit up?” he asked Mick in a whisper.

The nurse came over to raise the automatic bed. “Nice and slow, okay?” he reassured Len, who was breathing steadily as the bed was raised. The nurse looked satisfied. “I’ll be nearby.”

As soon as they were alone, Len’s head fell forward in a grim coughing fit, his face twisted up in pain.

Mick was at his side in a second, rubbing his partner’s back and gripping his shoulder. He wasn’t used to seeing Len so—vulnerable. It wrenched something in his chest, half with worry, half with that rage that had been flickering on and off inside him like a flame since the start of this whole fucking mess. “D’you want the nurse? More pain meds?”

He shook his head _—_ _stubborn bastard,_ Mick thought again—his hand clinging weakly onto Mick’s on his shoulder. “Just don’t go anywhere,” Len whispered, with an approximation of a laugh, when he had his breathing under control again.

Some of the color was returning to his face, painfully slowly. “God, you’ve had me worried,” Mick said, and it came out softer than he meant it to.

“Sorry,” Len croaked, head falling back on his pillows.

Mick attempted an annoyed look, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t want to do anything to make Len feel worse than he did already. “Hardly your fault.”

Len’s face got all screwed up and uneasy at that. “You know it is."

Mick glared, fond and frustrated. A familiar feeling, around Len. “Shut up, you dolt. Amaya’s coming to talk to us about it later. It can wait.”

“I shouldn’t have—” Len started to say, then started up with another round of coughing.

“Hey. Later,” Mick soothed, his hand still on his partner’s back.

Len was looking at Mick glassy-eyed, like he was so… sorry.

“But you’re never doing this to me again, you hear me?” Mick cleared the gruffness out of his voice. Len frowned, shaking his head in confusion. “You ain’t leaving me again. Not ever.”

“Got it,” Len said, very quietly, his eyes wide at Mick.

* * *

  
Two days later, someone decreed that Len was well enough for an official visit from the FBI. He was ready never to have a cop or a fed turn up in his life ever again. Not that he’d ever been keen, but at this point he’d really had enough—of the life of crime, and the shit that came with it. He had recently spent some rather quiet time with a tube stuck down his throat, pondering just how sick he was of himself and of all the ways he’d… hurt people. He wondered if it always took a near-death experience to get to this point. He suspected he was just a particularly bloody-minded bastard.

Well, at least this time he knew the FBI agent in question.

“Leonard Snart,” Amaya said from the door to his room, giving him that wry smile that he was starting to associate with all his fuck-ups. “May I…?”

“Of course,” he said, his hoarse voice cracking. He could talk for longer now, though it was still uncomfortable.

Dr. Snow had told him that morning that he could have issues with his voice and breathing for the rest of his life. “Lung scarring,” she had said, pointing matter-of-factly at a diagnosis on his chart that he didn’t understand. “There are medications, but you may still need oxygen. We’ll talk about how you’re going to handle it long term.”

He liked her. She didn’t mince words like he couldn’t take it. “I’ve put up with worse,” he had said. “I’ll handle it.”

Amaya strode in, taking the seat on the other side of his bed, glancing at Mick in the chair opposite. “We meet in a hospital again,” she said to Len. “Starting to get old, isn’t it?”

Shit, that stung. He looked askance at her, there on his left. Smart blue suit. Hair tied neatly back. _Badge_. He half-choked on a sharp, shallow breath. The strain of the past few days was maybe starting to catch up with him. He brought his hands up in front of him, pressed the tips of his fingers together in a calming rhythm. “You could say that, Amaya.”

She smiled, reaching out a hand and placing it, hesitantly, on the bed next to him. “First of all, are you okay? This must all have been a lot.” She pulled quickly back.

He blinked in surprise. “I—Yeah. Getting there.”

She was reaching into her bag for a file and her reading glasses. She put them on and gave him a look over the top of them. He got a fleeting shock of nerves, like a kid who’d been sent to the principal’s office. "I’m about to lecture you," she warned. "Are you up to it?”

He turned his head to look at her properly, a smile forming before he could catch it. “Go right ahead. I probably deserve it.”

“Quit that,” Mick muttered, from his right. Len ignored him.

“You screwed up, Leonard,” Amaya said, eyebrows raised.  

His hands twisted together, unbidden. “When I went to Central?”

Amaya sighed. “Not just that. All of it. Not trusting the police and the FBI. Not telling us _half_ of what was going on. You talked to informants in Central City without our knowledge. You didn’t keep _anyone_ advised. You were stabbed, for pity’s—”

“Thanks,” he interrupted. “I was there.” He was staring at his hands, folded tight in front of him, his raised index fingertips at his lips. “And no offence, but I don’t trust anyone.”

“And isn’t that the problem?”

He tried not to look at Mick as she said it, but he caught a glimpse of sad eyes on his right.

“The fire,” Len said, after a moment of silence. “It was the Santinis who set it, yeah?”

She glanced up the door, looking reassured to find it shut. “We think so, but we’re a little short on evidence. They’re good.” She scowled. “I've been cleaning up after their fires for years now. We can never get to anyone anywhere near the top of the Santini ranks.” Amaya sat back in her seat, regarding him thoughtfully. “So. What are we going to do with you now?”

“I’ll work with you. Whatever it takes.” He glanced at Mick, who gave him half a smile.

She nodded slowly. “I don’t want to go down the road of FBI witness protection. It’s deep cover. You’d have to cut off contact with a lot of people in your life. Lisa. And—” She nodded at Mick, who visibly swallowed at that. “But,” she continued, “if you can help us figure out some of this mess, we’ll do what we can help you relocate and start again.  _Again.”_ She glared at Len. “But you’re going to have to trust us.”

Len nodded.

And then, he had a very bad idea.

He felt a smile quirk at the corners of his mouth. “Amaya,” he said slowly, “I might have a plan.”

* * *

  
Mick had experienced some weird shit since his partner came into his life, but this was the strangest thing Len had come up with yet. “Did something hit you on the head during the fire? ‘Cause that’s the craziest plan I’ve ever heard.” Len turned a wicked smirk on him, shrugging. Mick laughed, and then a sober thought cut him off. “But seriously. This could kill you.”

“Nah,” Len said, but he was looking at Amaya, unsure.

She shook her head at him, wide-eyed. “We’d take every precaution, but there is a chance you could get hurt, yes. You should be _very_ sure you want to take that chance, Leonard.”

Len dropped his head back against the pillows. “I want out of this,” he said slowly, though his voice didn’t sound like it was up to his usual drawl. “I caused this mess, and I dragged all of you into it. I’m gonna fix it.” His eyes drifted across to meet Mick’s. “You really wanna help me?”

There was that old flash of annoyance at his partner, the guy who never trusted anyone. Well, this time he was going to. “Yes,” Mick said firmly.

Amaya frowned at Mick. “That’s the part of the plan that I like least. But it’s your decision.”

Mick grinned back. “You do know I go into sixteen burning buildings a week, yeah?”

“Actually,” she said, laughing, “I try very hard not to think about that.” She was looking at him across the bed, and there was something warm in her eyes. For him. He was suddenly struck by how much had changed, and how good that was.

“Still,” Mick said with a shrug, “I might be the one with the most useful experience for this. If he really wants to go through with this crackpot scheme.” He bit down on his doubt. “Every precaution?” he asked Amaya, and she nodded. “I trust you.” 

“We’ll get you out safe. Both of you.” She was giving Len a shrewd stare, one that Mick knew well. “Leonard, if we give you this chance, will you throw it away?”

Len shook his head, gaze returning to his hands. “No.” Quieter, he added, “Not this time.”

Mick’s heart clenched for him. Even if Len probably needed to feel a little guilty, just for a bit.

“And you’re staying out of trouble after this, yes?”

Len glanced at Mick, then looked back at Amaya and nodded. “First sign of strife, I’ll get out of your family’s way.”

She smiled sadly and shook her head. “Hey. None of that self-sabotaging nonsense. You’re not getting rid of us that easy now, Leonard.”

Mick surprised himself with a little laugh. “Still. It’s motivation.”

Len had turned his gaze on Mick. His blue eyes were swimming with things that Mick wasn’t used to seeing there—guilt, fear. Mick didn't want to be responsible for putting that look on his partner’s face.

Amaya noticed them watching each other, and stood up decisively. “I think I’d better go and rescue my son from your sister. They were having a distressing conversation where she was encouraging him to be a civil engineer when he grows up.”

Len raised an eyebrow. “That’s distressing?”

“You have no idea. Every time he has a new career of the week, I have to buy him more themed toys. He just moved on from airline pilot. I can’t afford an entire model skyline complete with bridges.”

Len and Mick both laughed, in sync. At the door, Amaya looked at Len with more sympathy than Mick would have expected. “We’re going to sort this out, Leonard,” she said in a reassuring tone. “We’ll figure out the details of this… plan… when you’re back home, yes?”

He nodded. “And—thank you, Amaya.”

“You’re welcome.” She was smiling fondly at him. It wasn’t too different from that smile she so often gave Mick, that told him he was family.

She closed the door behind her, and there was silence in the room. Len had brought his tented hands up to his head, and was staring at the floor through them.

After a moment, Mick coughed. “You might be broken. Craziest plan I’ve ever heard,” he repeated.

Len dropped his hands. “I can’t believe you wanna help.”

Mick shook his head, wondering when his friend would finally understand what he meant to him.“‘Course I do, you freak. What are partners for?”

Len’s eyes were sparkling above a little smile, just a touch of apprehension in them. “They're letting me out tomorrow," he said, after a minute. "Come home with me.”

Mick felt a smile spread slowly across his face. Maybe Len was finally getting there. “Sure,” he said, without even having to think about it.

* * *

  
Lisa was _fussing,_  which was the thing Len liked least in the world.

“All right,” she said, plumping pillows around him on the couch. “Here’s the heat pad for your chest—I plugged it in ready to go. You want more pillows, they’re on the chair. There’s chicken soup in the fridge for you to heat up later. Jug of water on the table.”

Len tilted his head. “Yes, Lisa. My eyes weren’t hurt in the fire. I can, in fact, still see.”

Slouching against the door frame, Mick rolled his eyes at her. “He’s gonna be fine, Lise. I’ll be looking after him.”

Lisa looked between Len and Mick, like she was deciding which of them to lecture. She cocked a finger at her brother’s partner. “You let him get up to any mischief and he ends up hurting himself, I'll make sure you suffer too.”

Len frowned at her, catching the hint of fear still lurking in his sister's eyes. The siblings had mostly resumed their usual routine of mutual sarcasm and bitchiness, but he could feel where that was softened at the edges.

“She’s not kidding,” he quipped at Mick. “And would you come in already? You can’t be at my beck and call from there.”

Mick skulked in, stopping in front of Len at the sofa, shifting his weight awkwardly between his legs.

“I’m late.” Lisa picked up her bag from the coffee table. “Take good care of him, you hear me?”

“Go to work, Lisa.” Mick sighed as the door closed. “Thank god. She’s getting mother-hen annoying.”

Len aimed a smirk at him. “Gonna make me a nice cup of tea, then?”

Mick grumbled, but disappeared obediently into the kitchen.

When he returned, the tray was laden with two cups of tea and two huge slices of cake. Len felt an amused eyebrow rising.

“What? I made cake. Needed something to keep me busy while you were off nearly dying,” Mick muttered, setting the cup and a slice next to him. “Red velvet. There’s a chocolate one in the kitchen. Don’t tell Lise—she thinks you should be eating nothing but soup.”

Len suppressed a laugh, not wanting to invite another coughing fit. He gazed at his partner, a strange, fond mood coming over him. “You, uh,” he started, then tried again. “You gonna hang out with me?”

Mick narrowed his eyes at him sardonically. “No, I thought I’d go for a run. Asshole.”

That time a little laugh escaped him in reply.

Mick was looking unhappily at the couch. Len was sprawled out across it under a very sufficient pile of blankets. “Can’t sit with you,” he grumped. He shrugged and dropped to the floor, his head popping up next to Len’s. “Hi!”

“You keep making me laugh, I’m gonna pass out and you’ll have to find me oxygen.”

“I’m qualified!” Mick nodded at the oxygen bottle in the corner. “So you just relax and I’ll make sure you don’t die, ‘kay?”

Chuckling, Len reached out to clap him on the back, leaving his hand there a moment.

“So,” Mick said, twisting all the way round to face him, in what looked like an uncomfortable position. “Two weeks stuck on the sofa, huh?"

“Would have thought I’d been punished enough,” Len said, trying for a wry tone, but it came out wrong. He frowned at his tea. _Had_ he been?

He felt Mick poke him in the side. “Wasn’t your fault, and you didn’t deserve it.” It was becoming Mick’s mantra. “And, hey. You’re about to be free of all that shit. You can move on. Must feel good, huh?”

“Sure, if all goes according to plan. Haven’t made a plan in a while. Could be a disaster.” Len deflected instead of answering, not caring that Mick would know what he was doing. He didn’t want to go there just now. “And what about you, hmm? What you planning on doing with yourself next? Seems like you really got life under control.” He looked back at his mug, ignoring the odd sting that came with that.

He peeked up to see guilt flicker across Mick’s face. “I wouldn’t say that,” he muttered. “It’s still… hard. I got a lot to make up for.” He reached out to squeeze Len’s hand. “Not like I didn’t miss you, this past year, but—I needed to focus on him for a while, you know? Amaya, too. I put her through a lot.”

Len nodded, firmly ignoring the stab of jealousy of the people who got to be with Mick when he didn’t. He didn’t want to be that person. “Don’t blame you.”

“Not sure I ever really will. Make up for it, I mean.”

He sighed. “No, I don’t expect you will.” At Mick’s desolate expression, he sighed and hit him lightly on the arm. “Stop that, you jackass. Not helping.”

Mick ignored him, his scowl turning sour with self-recrimination.

Len turned his mug slowly between his hands. He was trying to put something into words, that he’d been thinking for a long time. “Look. You believed that crap about how hurt people hurt people.” He frowned harder. “Been there. But that’s bullshit, and you know it. Like I told you once before—what matters most is what you do now.”

Mick’s face was painful to look at, a mix of shame and hope in his eyes. “I’m trying.”

Len pulled himself a little more upright against the couch, looking at his partner. He was remembering the deadbeat absent father from a couple of years ago, making excuses that pissed Len off. Maybe not as bad as the ones he’d heard from Lewis, a long time ago, but still nothing that gave him any hope for Mick.

Not so long ago, when Len had been a much more cynical version of himself, he had believed that no one was really capable of change. If Mick could come this far… Maybe there was even a chance for Len.

“It’s a start,” he said quietly.

Mick was silent for a minute, then cleared his throat. “So you’re really not coming back to Central? Probably can now, if you want.”

Len shrugged. “I got another internship in Coast City starting next month. After that—well. Don’t have to stay there, but I don’t know if there’s anything left for me in Central anymore.” His eyes flickered up to meet Mick’s, then dropped again. He was nervous, he realised, with a strange jolt.

“There is,” Mick said. “If you want there to be.”

Len nodded.

And then suddenly he was  _done with this._ He slapped the side of the sofa next to Mick’s head. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Mick blinked at him. “Huh?”

“We’re a pair of assholes.”

Mick snorted. “Yeah. What’s your point?”

Len reached down to run his hand over Mick’s head. Today was full of more touch than they usually engaged in, but there were special circumstances. “We’re not doing any more of this deflecting shit, Asshole Number 2.”

“Hey. Why am I second?”

“Stop interrupting.” Len attempted to smile at him, though he feared it came out as his usual smirk. Well, it would do. “In the hospital,” he said slowly. “When I woke up. You said you didn’t want us to be apart again.”

Mick frowned at the floor. “Thought you were too sick to remember any of that.”

“Well, I do.” Len reached for that hope, that everything could be different, and held onto it with everything he had. “Mick, do you have anything keeping you in Central right now?”

Mick shrugged. “My job. Nothing else.”

Wide-eyed, Len found his hand back on Mick’s shoulder. He wasn’t letting this chance slip away from him again. “Then come to Star City with me. You can persuade your department to get you transferred. Then you can be near your son, and I can start again.” He squeezed Mick’s shoulder. “Come with me,” he said again.

Mick blinked. For about thirty seconds.

“Star City,” he said at last. “You want me to… move in with you?”

 _“Yes_. God, you take your time figuring shit out,” he said, falling back on just a little snark, an old defence against the damn feelings that were everywhere.

There was fear all over Mick’s face. “What if we screw this up again?”

“Then we fix it again.” He caught Mick’s gaze in his own. “It’s you and me, Mick. We can figure everything else out.”

“Star City,” he said again, a note of awe in his voice. 

“Say that one more time and I’m withdrawing the offer.”

Mick laughed and clapped his hand on the arm of the sofa. “Okay. Okay! Let’s do it.”

Len smiled back at him.

But Mick’s face had already crumpled again, something else clearly on his mind. “Uh, Lenny... There’s something I’ve been meaning to say. I meant to say it the whole year we were together. I didn’t know how.”

Len coughed a laugh. “You give up on me and start with the deathbed confessions and I’m gonna have to kill you.”

“Shut up—you ain’t on your deathbed.” Mick’s brow was tightly furrowed, his eyes fixed on something very far away. “Twenty-two years ago.”

Len felt his eyebrows climbing up his head.

“I saw them beating on you in the juvie yard. I should have stopped ‘em. You could have died.” He stared up at Len. “You nearly did.”

Len had to work harder at breathing through the rush of memory. “Where’d this come from?”

Mick reached out and ran a feather-light hand across Len’s face. It was still swollen in places, and Len tried not to wince under Mick’s careful touch. “Just… remembering.”

“I saw you there,” Len admitted. “I don’t blame you—you didn’t know me. But I have always kinda wondered why you didn’t step in.” Len shrugged. “Even back then, you seemed like the type that would.”

Mick had pulled his hands away from Len’s face. He was stimming, fingers lightly tapping against palms. The action, so much like what Ethan did when he was distressed, had Len frowning at Mick with concern. “I burned my house down. She died.” He was talking a bit faster than usual. “I had to get out of that place, so I could pick up the pieces. Fix things. You didn’t matter.” He looked up at Len. “You should have.”

Len noticed that he’d never moved his hand from Mick’s shoulder, and he tightened his grip. “You seriously been feeling guilty about that for all this time? Twenty-two _years?”_

Mick snorted. “I got guilt for miles.” He stilled, his hands relaxing, and sighed. “It was one more thing I fucked up in my life, you know? And, who knows. We could have been friends a lot earlier.”

Len sat back and looked at Mick. The world underestimated his partner, but Len never would. Mick was amazing. And he was—his. “You’re good, partner. You didn’t even know me back then. And I’m fine. In a roundabout way, it got me and Lisa out of hell, even if I didn’t know we needed that at the time.” He tilted his head, looking sideways at him. “And now we’re just gonna have to make up for lost time. A lot if it.”

Mick was staring hard at the floor.

Len coughed, partly to clear the heavy silence. “While we’re doing apologies…” He didn’t miss how Mick’s eyes snapped up to meet his, then flickered away again. “We both made mistakes. Mine were worse.”

Mick’s voice came out a little rough when he said, “We playing mistake Olympics now? Think I still have you beat.”

Len laughed. “Not even close.” But his partner didn’t smile. Len decided to go all in. “Mick… you know how sorry I am, right? For lying to you.” He sighed. “And for everything that came after.”

Eyes sober, Mick looked up at him. “Yeah. I know, buddy.” He twitched at a smile. “I'm not gonna torture you, Len. Forgave you a while ago.”

There was no answer to that, but it loosened a long-familiar weight in Len’s chest, more than any of the oxygen of the past few days. He met Mick’s eyes and squeezed his shoulder once more. “Then... let’s just say we’re both gonna do better.”

Mick’s smile was blazing. “Agreed. Partner.”

“So,” Len said, letting his head fall back onto the pillows. He pulled back his hand, suddenly awkwardly aware of all the physical contact. “We’re really doing this thing with the Santinis, huh?” He smirked at Mick. “Am I nuts?”

“Just a bit.”

Len shrugged. “Well then. We better get to the planning.”

Mick chuckled, shaking his head. “Why do I feel like you’re good at that?”

“The best.” He pointed at a cabinet behind him. “Find me a large sheet of paper and some pens from in there. We’re making the plan.”

Mick quirked an eyebrow, but stood up. “Yes, boss,” he said, with only the barest hint of sarcasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two more chapters to go now! 
> 
> Comments are <3 Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and commenting every chapter! Makes my day every time.
> 
> To avoid the scene where the doctor removes Len's breathing tube, the relevant paragraph starts "The doc counted him up" and ends "and then she was gone."


	13. Execute the Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Mick at his side, Len takes on the Santinis.

**_ 6 hours ago _ **

_Len strained his eyes into the darkness, and found that he was clinging to the rickety sides of a long ladder._

_Above him, step after endless step stretched up into a clear night sky._

_The view beneath him was shrouded by dense, cold fog, but he could just make out more rungs disappearing into shadows. He could hear things creeping, below him, in the dark._

_He needed to move, tried to move, but…_ _Had he been climbing up, or down?_

_In the distance, he caught sight of a black pair of firefighter’s boots. His partner’s face followed them, turning to grin down with a warm, trusting look. “C’mon,” he called down to Len. “You’re almost there.”_

_He’d been going up. Hadn’t he?_

_Len lifted his foot, tested the rung above him—and stumbled. Foot shuddering, gravity snatching him. He grabbed the sides of the ladder. His breath was coming short and tight._

_Mick looked down at him, features flickering, resolving into a frown._

_Len turned away. He looked down, squinting into the darkness where he had come from. Just for a second..._

_“Lenny?” Mick’s voice was full of doubt._

_“I’ll be right up,” Len called back._

_He didn’t understand why his partner looked suddenly, hopelessly sad, and began to climb away._

_“Mick, wait—” was all Len got out._

_A hand grasped his ankle._

_He lurched, staring down into the sneering face of Lewis Snart. “Where d’you think you’re going, son?” he taunted. And_ pulled.

_Len went spinning, tumbling down into the darkness._

_He woke up gasping for air, clutching the bed beneath him like it could save him from freefall._

* * *

** Now **

Mick pulled his pea coat tighter around him. He hadn’t yet hit that adrenaline-fuelled moment when everything in his head became quiet, but the nerves were starting to swirl inside.

He glanced around the van, crammed with high-tech equipment and more feds than they needed—he hoped. He couldn’t believe that they got picked up by an actual black van. It was kind of cool. Or it would have been, in less stressful circumstances.

Next to him, Len was in a black suit, a long black trench coat finishing off the outfit. It was all pretty intimidating. Mick gave him an approving nod, to which Len just raised an eyebrow.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Len had asked him on the phone, early that morning, as Mick was getting into the car to head to the rendezvous point. “This is risky. They’ve already hurt you too, once.”

Mick had made a dismissive noise as he adjusted the mirror. “Amaya’s people are pretty sure this bozo we’re meeting won’t know who I am, with the fake name and all.” He had shrugged, even though Len couldn’t see it. “And I’m doing this _‘cause_ I got hurt.” He caught sight of himself in the mirror. The muscles of his face were tight, resolute. He was sick of just standing by and letting things happen to him. To both of them.

Len had followed that up with that guilty silence he was doing a lot recently.

“Didn’t I tell you to quit that?” Mick chided. “I’m not mad at you, asshole. But I got the right to a little justice for what they did to me. And... you.” He dropped into a mutter. “No one’s nearly taking you away from me and getting away with it.”

There was a brief awkward silence, and Len changed the subject. But Mick imagined his partner wearing that fond little smile he always pretended not to get, whenever Mick got a bit touchy-feely.

So there they were, a couple of hours later, in a van full of government types. And wasn’t Len looking uncomfortable about that. Mick tried not to laugh at his partner’s icy expression, deep in conversation with Amaya. Mick glanced around, tapping his foot, and leaned over a display screen. It was showing a camera trained on a location a mile away. “Nice,” he said, and somehow managed to rest his elbow on a button he wasn’t supposed to touch.

The agent sitting at the desk reached over and pressed something that cancelled the loud alert. She was all severe suit and pulled-back hair. “Please don’t touch anything, Mr. Rory.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled back.

She gave him a patronising look. “I don’t expect you’ve ever been in a situation like this before, have you?”

“Not exactly like this, no.” He crossed his arms. “I did handle a bomb threat against the mayor last week, though. Turned out there was an actual bomb, you believe that? We got a hundred people out of her office. No damage, no casualties.” He didn’t bother hiding the pride in his voice. Damn, he loved his job. Even when it didn’t involve actual fire.

She was staring at him in obvious discomfort. “Firefighter?”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s right.”

“Well. Uh... thank you for your service.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for yours,” he said, with an equally patronising smile, and turned back to Len and Amaya.

Amaya was doing that hard stare she did when she got really focused. Good thing it was directed at Len, not at him, for once. The two of them were finalizing the plan _yet again._ Mick grinned at his partner. “You two talked this shit through last week.”

Len pivoted around to look at him, and Mick had to force himself not to take an instinctive step back. That was a damn intimidating look for a civil engineer. _He’s done this before._ It wasn’t comfortable, remembering who Len used to be, but all that past experience was about to come in very useful. Getting into character was probably a good idea.

“I’m aware, Mick,” Len said absently. “But we wouldn’t want to have something go wrong and have both of us fall rather lethally flat on our faces, now, would we?”

Despite the damage to Len’s voice, he was pulling off something not far from his old drawl. Mick doubted he could keep that up forever, but it was good and menacing for now.

Amaya gave Mick a calming smile. “Stick to the plan, okay, Mick? Don’t get excited and go off book.”

He bumped her shoulder with his own. “Don’t worry, Amaya. My days of losing my shit and trashing places are behind me.”

“Oh god,” she said on a nervous laugh. “I never thought I’d say this, but we might need a little of your old temper in there, so don’t hold back if it comes to it. Just—you know. Stay safe.”

He met her eyes, a lot going unsaid between them. “I know.”

Glancing at Len, he caught his partner’s expression getting tighter, colder, and swallowed. “Time to go, boss?”

“Yes,” Len said. His eyes were distant. “Let’s.”

The van dropped them a mile from their destination, next to Len’s bike. As they climbed out, Amaya reminded them _again_ that agents would be arriving ahead of them, patrolling the perimeter.

Mick raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. You said.”

She scowled back at him. “And you know how things are going to go down if anything goes wrong, yes?”

 _“Yes,_ Amaya. Go ‘way. We’ll be fine.”

Mick got onto the bike behind Len, and was clinging tightly to his partner before he realised it.

Len turned the key in the ignition—and then turned it off again. Mick felt him sighing, and tightened his hold around him. “Lenny?”

His partner let out a miserable chuckle. “You’re about to see a side of me I’m really trying to move on from,” he muttered.

Mick shrugged against him. “It’s what we gotta do. But don’t worry. I know that’s not you.”

“It’s _exactly_ me,” Len snapped, his tone dangerous. “And after today I’m never gonna let myself live this life again, but—this is who I am too. Always will be.” He cricked his neck to catch Mick’s gaze in his own. “Just... don’t judge me too harshly, okay?”

“I know where you come from, Len. I started there too.”

Len shook his head, turning forward and reaching for the ignition again.

Mick laid his hand over Len’s, and he stilled under his touch. “Hey. Did you hear Amaya back there? You’re about to be a hero.”

Len snorted, glancing back to raise an eyebrow at him. “No, Mick. You’re the hero. I don’t have any ambitions except to clean up my own mess.”

Mick smiled at him.

As the heavy bike lifted off unforgiving tarmac, Mick said into Len’s ear, “Good enough for me.”

* * *

Mick had done a lot of bonkers shit in his time, but he’d never walked into the house of one of the biggest crime Families in the country and tried to pass as a heavy for an aspiring rival crime boss. He wasn’t too proud to admit that he was scared.

Len, on the other hand, was clearly not scared. Len... looked like he was having the time of his life.

They were shown straight into the grand central room of the extravagant house—not the main Santini headquarters, but clearly meant for showing off some of the money their operation boasted.

Mick flanked Len on one side, earnestly trying to channel the angry, dangerous monster of his younger days. On Len’s other side, an undercover agent, endowed with a convincing scar across his face, was pulling this off a little better than Mick. Between the three of them, they at least looked the part.

Already at the large desk in the middle of the room sat the youngest daughter of Don Santini. She didn’t get up when they came in. Well-known for her ambition, rumour had it that Angela Santini was looking to make her own opportunities. That made her perfect for this little ruse.

(It was a good plan. Mick just kept repeating that, like a calming mantra, in his head.)

“Mr. Snart,” Angela Santini was saying, gesturing to the single plush chair in front of the desk. “Please have a seat.”

Right. They’d gone over this. Mick and the other bruiser—agent—would be expected to stand to attention nearby. He glanced at Len for reassurance that he was doing okay, but his partner was deep into his own role.

And Len really was in his element, running his hand across magnolia-wood opulence like he owned the place. Now there was a man who was channeling his younger self. “Let me get straight to the point, Ms. Santini,” Len said. “We have interests in common. I’d like to propose a deal.”

Santini sat back in her seat, set higher than Len’s. She was clearly aiming for a menacing sneer, but the man across the table from her was hitting that note with far more practice. Mick tried not to look at lethal blue eyes above a chilling smirk. For an interminable second, he didn’t recognise his partner.

Then, as Santini looked down at a file on her desk, Len half-turned his head and shot him a grin. Mick swallowed back a chuckle.

“A deal? I trust it’s a good one. Can’t imagine why else you’d be bold enough to walk into Santini HQ without the money you owe us.” She looked back up at him with a threatening smile. “You know, there are those in my family who were convinced that you were the rat who squealed on half of our associates last year. So tell me, Mr. Snart.” She pulled herself up with her hands on the desk. Mick shifted just an inch forward—Len wouldn’t be appreciating how she was looming over him, though he was giving nothing away. “Why should we trust you enough to be interested in a _deal?”_

“Why did you ever trust me at all, Ms. Santini? You and your family.”

She shrugged. “You were well known to be very competent.”

“And was I?”

“Certainly. Why else would we have kept you around for five years? It was... out of character, the way you went off the grid while you owed us money.”

He shrugged lazily, slouching in his chair, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Had things I needed to deal with elsewhere. I’m back in the game now. You’ve talked to Mr. Margoles?”

Mick tensed at the name. A rising star in a crime family in Coast City, Margoles was also an FBI agent under deep cover.

As soon as he had recovered from his accident, Len had started working with a couple of the smaller criminal Families in Coast City—with the support of the FBI, this time. It had been four months, but that wasn’t long enough to build up the trust needed to pull off this crackpot scheme. The undercover agent’s word was extra security.

Santini nodded, her eyes narrowing at her file. “Margoles. He works for the Corries, yes? He had good things to say about you. There does seem to be scuttlebutt about you doing some good work recently.” She sat down again, watching Len closely. “Only _very_ recently, though.”

“Like I said. Had things to deal with.”

She huffed like she thought she was being clever. “What sort of things?”

“Family matters,” Len shot back just as fast, never falling out of rhythm with her.

That seemed to satisfy her for now. “Mmm.” She leaned forward, her hands on the desk. “So. You had a proposition for me?”

Len nodded, hiking one leg territorially over the other, right in front of her. His smirk was still fixed in place, with that hard edge Mick wasn’t used to seeing there. “I’m planning to establish my own—enterprise. In Coast City. Wondered if the Santinis would like to, shall we say, sponsor me.”

Her eyebrows crept up. “Explain.”

“You’ll get a cut on everything I make,” he said, still managing to keep the drawl convincing. “And not just till I’ve paid off my debts to you. _Permanently_. You can call it a Santini franchise operation, if you like.”

“And what,” she practically purred, “do you want in exchange?”

He shrugged, bold and casual. “Money to get started. Some independence to run things how I like.”

Santini laughed, but she looked almost charmed. “And why would we give you more money, Snart?”

He tilted his head. “Because in a few years I’m going to be raking it in. All that _competence_ you saw before? Wasn’t in a position to do much with it, in the past. I am now. Call it a… change of heart, if you will.” His smirk widened, oozing confidence. “It’d be a shame for you to miss out when the train pulls away from the station, now, wouldn’t it?”

Mick kept his breathing steady. This was it—the moment when this daredevil scheme went one way or the other. Either Santini followed Len’s direction, and they opened negotiations and made it safely out of here afterwards. Or she didn’t, and the feds stepped in. Mick really didn’t want to have to put Plan B into action.

Len was tap-tap-tapping on the underside of the table in front of him, a lot like Mick always did. Under Len’s long, agile fingers, the pattern became unnerving. He was reassuring himself, Mick realised, even as he looked picture-perfect as the upstart with mob boss ambitions.

Santini got a strange, entranced look on her face, clearly enjoying her own moment of self-importance. Mick could only imagine how much she loved the idea of making a deal she could take back to daddy. “Persuade me,” she said.

_Here it comes._

Len paused for effect, like he was considering the question. Like he hadn’t been planning his answer for months. He folded his hands together neatly across his crossed legs and smiled. “I supplied the Santinis with some very lucrative business in my time. Just like my father did before me.” Only Mick could have seen how Len said that last sentence through slightly clenched teeth, his smile not faltering. “I negotiated between you and three other Families when the pigs raided you, remember? Got _quite_ the quantity of goods moved around, fast.”

Her nod was probably useless as evidence, but Len kept talking. (Like the natural liar he was, Mick tried, and failed, not to think.)

“I fenced the Kahndaq diamond for you, and you must know how much work it is to shift that kind of score.” He leaned across the desk towards her, kicking up the charm a notch. “I put myself right in the firing line when your people botched the Central City Auction House job in 2015, you remember?” He scrunched up his eyes, as if reaching for the details. “A Van Gogh, wasn’t it? I came through for you, the Darbinyans got fingered for it, and you didn’t lose a cent. Or a man. _Or_ the painting.”

“I remember,” she said. Mick held his breath. Santini was grinning back now, totally taken in. “You’re right—you were invaluable during the raids.” She laughed, a charmed little tinkle. “Serious evidence could have ended up in the wrong hands without you. Yes, we did appreciate that.”   

“Like I said,” Len responded, his lazy drawl cracking at the edges. Mick could only imagine how much that hurt, but the bastard was barely letting it show.

She was nodding. “And what cut are you suggesting the Santinis take?”

Len’s mirthless smile broadened, eyes widening dramatically. “I was thinking fifteen percent.”

She laughed, relaxing back into her chair. “Ah, Mr. Snart. Let’s open the bidding at forty and see how that goes, shall we?” She waved at her own handler, at the door. “Paul, why don’t you find us a nice bottle of Scotch to negotiate over? None of the older ones, of course.”

Mick bounced on his heels, letting himself come down from his itch for a fight that looked like it wasn’t coming.

Len snuck a glance behind him again and winked at Mick, the smug fucking bastard.

It was a good thing, for all their sakes, that he was _Mick’s_ smug bastard.

* * *

One thing was always true.

You couldn’t trust anyone. Not even yourself.

Len had been reminded of that too many times in his cursed life ever to forget it again.

So he wasn’t completely ignoring the voice at the back of his head, telling him that the relief flooding over him was an illusion, as he sat in a palatial room sipping Scotch with a Santini. But he was so close. So what if he let himself get a bit little cocky?

Later, Mick would ask him “What the hell were you thinking?” and Len would say he knew he could get Angela Santini to come out with just one more piece of evidence. But really? He was enjoying the show.

He was lolling casually back in his chair with his glass, aiming to look like he fit there. “Now now, Ms. Santini. If I give you thirty percent, I might as well be _working_ for you. Surely my skills are worth a better deal than that. Do you even remember when I helped you with—”

And suddenly, something flickered across Santini’s face. “I might be willing to settle on twenty-five,” she interrupted, picking up the phone. “All the same, I should check with my brother. Procedure, you know. He wouldn’t be pleased if I made a bad deal without his say-so.”

For a few long seconds, Len couldn’t move.

“Frankie,” she was saying into the phone, “perhaps you’d come and oversee this agreement I’m working on? Yes, it’s in the calendar. Guess you just missed it. Thank you.”

Angela was looking right at Len as she spoke. There was no way for him to turn his head and catch Mick’s eye without her seeing. At last she hung up the phone, smiled, and raised her glass to him. Len did the same, sipping his way through a long, painful silence.

He was trying not to list every mistake he’d ever made in his head. From deals with multiple devils, to slipping back into a life of crime. From lying to Mick, to walking out on him, and then dragging him back into his crap, over and over. Every time, because Len thought there was only one way to survive.

_Trust no one but you, right? Asshole..._

At last Santini looked down, fidgeting with the papers in front of her. Keeping his face neutral, Len turned his head, just slightly, aiming a look at Mick that he would understand. The agent next to him didn’t move. Maybe he’d already reached into his pocket, but there was no way to know.

Len turned back. Behind him, he could hear Mick shuffling.

“What the hell are you doing, Angela?” said Frank Santini from the door.

He moved slowly across the room, his eyes on Len.

“Making a deal. Mr. Snart has a very interesting offer for us.”

“I bet he does,” Santini muttered, looking down at the notes laid out in front of his sister. He took a seat next to her, pulling the paperwork in front of him. Then he looked up, eyes full of suspicion, and folded his arms. “How you been, Snart?”

“Oh, just fine, Mr. Santini. Just fine.”

“Really?” Santini’s replying smile was brittle. “‘Cause we heard about a fire you got caught in, few months back. Such a shame.”

Len smiled, sweeping his hands down his torso in demonstration. “All recovered.”

“And now working in Coast City with big names, huh? Fast about-turn you did there. We heard you was out of the game for a while.”

Len shrugged his shoulders hard, smirking. “Got bored. Missed the thrill.”

“Hmm,” was all Santini said, studying Len’s face.

For just a moment, Len thought they could still pull it off. The guy was looking almost persuaded.

Then Santini looked down at his sister’s notes.

Len was expecting the familiar click as Santini pulled out his gun and clicked off the safety. It still ran through him like a shock of failure. There was _nothing_ he could do about it.

Calculations of minutes and seconds raced through his head. One minute forty seconds ago was the earliest that the agent behind him could have reached into his pocket—where he had a device stashed away, with an emergency button. It might be enough.

Oh, for once in his miserable life, let it be enough.

“Don’t you fucking move, Snart.”

Len counted to one minute fifty seconds in the spaces between the words.

Santini was shuffling around to the front of the desk, gun trained on Len.

Ten terminally long seconds passed. Two minutes, and where the hell _were they—_

Behind the Santinis, the window shattered, and everything dropped into slow motion.

The agent behind Len leapt towards Santini. Bold move, Len somehow found time to think, Kevlar vest or no.

A jolt of panic, and Len was being wrestled to the ground, by—Mick. It was a deeply stupid thing to do, but Len had never been more relieved that his partner had firefighter-trained instincts and a massive frame to put between him and the bullets that were about to start flying.

 _You selfish fucker, Snart._ He wasted a millisecond wondering how he’d feel if Mick died shielding his asshole partner who didn’t deserve it. He just kept… saving Len.

“Drop the gun, Santini!” yelled a new female voice. Both the Santinis’ guns hit the floor. A second later, so did both the Santinis.

Static crackling in Len’s brain, he caught up to what was going on around him, recognising the woman as one of the feds from the van. She had come in through the window.

Then there were two more agents at the door behind him, one with a Santini goon in a headlock.

Len started to laugh.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mick growled into his ear. He still had Len pinned to the ground, clearly not intending to let him up from the floor till the room was cleared of Santinis.

Len couldn’t speak for laughing. When he finally could, he spluttered, “I just made a deal with the Santinis and got rescued by five supremely badass feds. Not arrested. Rescued. It’s either my weirdest fantasy come true, or for once the universe has a sense of humor.”

Mick snorted. “Don’t look up now. There’s three cops at the window, too.”

Len laughed harder. And, predictably, he started to cough. “Mick,” he hissed. “You’re sitting on my fucking _chest.”_

“Oh my god. Sorry, buddy. Are you okay?” Mick stood up, and a hand reached down for Len.

Grinning, Len gripped it. He let Mick pull him up—and the adrenaline crash hit him. “Ohhhh god.”

Mick was patting him all over, with desperate eyes. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Len chuckled. “No, but my legs are made of jelly.” He doubled over, finishing the coughing fit.

Mick hung on to him, waving concerned agents away. Pulling out an inhaler, Len croaked, “Don’t suppose you can help me out of here, Mick?”

The most reassuring full-bodied laugh in the world vibrated against him. “Yeah, buddy. Come on.”

If Mick practically carried him out, everyone was kind enough not to mention it.

* * *

Len was still a bit unsteady on his feet when they got back to the van. Mick’s hand on his back was trembling against him as it kept him upright.

Amaya was wide-eyed and worried, patting Mick down as soon as they climbed in. “Are you okay?” She moved straight on to patting Len, who grunted and pulled away, and she grinned at him. “You live on the edge, don’t you, Leonard Snart?” There was a note of awe in her voice. “That was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen. That last bit was up there with the stupidest, too.” Then she paused, said “Fuck it”—the strongest language Len had ever heard from her—and reached over to hug Mick. In front of a van full of agents. He chuckled and squeezed her in return.

She let him go, then her eyes drifted over to Len. She didn’t try to hug him, and there was an odd moment when he didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed. “Thank you,” she said, her voice sincere.

“You’re welcome.” She was looking at him like he’d done something special. He shrugged, still all posturing nonchalance to cover up—something. “Get what you needed?” he asked, sitting down to get his wire removed.

“Damn right,” she said, and Len squirmed a bit under her still-intense gaze. “You just gave the organised crime department months of work. They’re gonna be so excited.” She snorted. “The Kahndaq diamond, Leonard? Really?”

He felt his eyes narrowing at her, and shoved down the feeling that it was all too good to be true. “You promised me full immunity.”

“Oh, you’ve got it,” she said with a grin, and then her face turned serious again. “But really. Thank you. Both of you,” she added, nodding over at Mick. “You put yourself at quite a risk there. I...” Amaya frowned, apparently at a loss for words.

Len raised an eyebrow and waited for her to get wherever she was going.

Regret flickered across her face. “I may have misjudged you, Leonard. That was... heroic.”

Len blinked. A few times. He still wasn’t sure that was a word that should ever be associated with his name.

He felt, rather than saw, Mick shifting closer behind him.

Ignoring him for a minute, Len met Amaya’s eyes. “You’ve never been anything but great to me, Amaya. Better than I deserved.” That got a smile and a shake of the head from her. “This is the least I could do, after all the mess I caused you. Really.”

She nodded slowly at him, then snapped right back into business mode. “An agent will stay with you tonight, and we’ll be moving you to the FBI safe house in Star City in the morning. Just till after the trial—assuming we can make the evidence stick. Then your life is yours again.” She glanced at Mick, and back to Len with a wry smile. It was a  _don’t screw this up again, asshole_ smile.

She made her excuses about needing to debrief, and left them together.

A hand fell lightly on Len’s shoulder as he stood up again. “How you doing, partner?”

Len frowned at the gray floor of the van. “Kept climbing,” he said, mostly to himself.

Mick stepped around to face him. “Huh?”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eyes drifted downwards again. “Amaya called me heroic.”

It was an uneasy feeling, sitting heavy in his stomach, warring uncomfortably with all the old truths he’d ever known about himself. That he’d never be worth anything, never be any better than his father, never turn his cursed life around.

“You were,” Mick said simply, looking at Len like he was the person he trusted most in the world. And if the way Amaya had looked at him had been uncomfortable, that look from his partner was—not what he expected.

Maybe he didn’t mind proving that he could be more than he had been, if it put that look on Mick’s face. Not really.

“Also?” Mick’s eyes were glazing over a bit. “Wow.” He started swinging his weight from one foot to the other. “Wow,” he said again.

Len laughed, patting him on the back. “You okay there, buddy?”

“Uh. Yeah. Probably gonna start spinning in circles like Ethan in a sec. When I get this kind of rush after a fire, I go back to the station and eat six donuts.” He lifted disappointed empty hands, and Len snorted. Mick scratched the back of his head, his eyes still fixed on Len. “You, uh. You did some impressive shit in your time, didn’t you?” A second later he seemed to remember to look judgmental about this, and Len laughed.

“Well. Can tell you one thing for sure. I never want to do that again.” He half-smiled at Mick. “Any of it.” Getting up, he slung an arm over his partner’s shoulder. “I’m about ready for some peace and quiet. Maybe in suburbia.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want the occasional consulting job?” Amaya called over her shoulder, from the other side of the van, where she’d been deep in conversation with a colleague.

Len raised an eyebrow at her, but he didn’t say no.

Mick chuckled. “We done here, Amaya?”

“Yup. We can debrief tomorrow. You two look like you’re about to keel over.”

Len grinned at her, then at Mick.

“What you staring at?” Mick said, frowning.

He was staring at his partner. A very firm voice in his head added ... _who you care about a hell of a lot, and you’re not letting him forget that ever again. Okay, asshole?_

He shook his head. “Nothing, buddy. Time to go home?”

“Sure. But, uh…” He scratched the back of his head again. “Can I get the story of how you fenced the Kahndaq diamond?”

Len chuckled. “Buddy, you can get more stories than that. Got all night?”

For a second Mick looked like he wanted to say _hell, yeah,_  and then he frowned. “No. We’re moving you out of your house in the morning.”

Len groaned. “Right. Because this was the perfect time to do that.”

Mick slapped him on the arm. “It is if you want to stay alive. Still, I could stretch to a beer.”

“Perfect. Maybe back at the coast, though. Or anywhere outside Santini territory…”

Mick laughed, and then Len was being shoved out of the van and towards his bike. “You got it, partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments, and thank you so much for reading! One more chapter to go...


	14. Broken Pieces that Fit Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a reminder of the past leads Len to reflect, Mick and Len start their life together.
> 
> _“You once said you had other things to live for, after the fire.”_
> 
> _A nod._
> 
> _“Think I could find my way to thinking that too,” Len murmured, and he didn’t even try to hide the way he looked at Mick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, apparently I was wrong about chapter numbers - I've got a short epilogue to come after this, to finish Mick's side of the story, and showing a glimpse of their future life together. This is *almost* the ending though. Enjoy! 
> 
> (Sorry this chapter is so late - the winter kicked my butt. Thette and I are so grateful to everyone who's still reading, and we appreciate all the lovely comments! The epilogue is written and will go up at the weekend.)

Len was sitting on the floor, sprawled against the back of the couch, staring at a newspaper laid out in front of him. Half-full boxes were everywhere—on the floor, on top of cabinets, a couple on the couch.

“You here?” he heard Mick call out, over the sound of a door clattering shut.

He took a breath, found it was hard work. “Living room.” 

Eyes narrowed with concern, Mick paused in the doorway. “You… okay?”

He made himself look up from the newspaper in front of him. “Not really.”

Mick dropped to the floor, sliding in against the couch back beside him.

Len waved at the obituaries column. Picking the paper up, he said, “My aunt put it in. She’s… weird. ‘Survived by two loving children.’” He spat the words out, and threw the newspaper down hard in front of him. “Are you freaking kidding me?” He slid the paper, hard, along the floor in front of Mick.

“Lewis Snart. Huh.” He glanced at Len, who turned his head away. The dust bunny in the corner was suddenly fascinating. “I’m gonna assume you’re not sad.”

Len was silent, his jaw clenched tight. He realised he had lifted his fist to his chest, right over the place where his shirt hid a long scar. Broken bottle. When he was barely older than Ethan. 

Mick shared the solidarity of silence with him for a minute. Len slid his hand quietly across his partner’s, grateful for it. For him.

Finally, Mick said, “You never talk about him.”

Len snorted, no humor in it. “That’s because I’ve tried very hard to forget him,” he muttered. Today wasn’t really helping with that endeavor.

Mick raised an eyebrow. “Like everything else in the past?”

Something clenching in Len’s chest told him it was true. He’d spent years running away. Not just from Lewis, though he’d been running from him for a long time. And then from college, and then from the normal life he couldn’t hack... And then from Mick.

He swallowed, avoiding his partner’s eyes. “Yes.”

Mick put a hand on Len’s shoulder.

He sighed, feeling it in his tight chest. “This is not great timing.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Mick said, his eyes drifting from the newspaper article to the boxes around them. “Seems about right.” His gaze settled on Len, and he gripped his hand. “Time for a new start, right?”

Len stared back down at the obituary. “Yeah,” he said, and meant it. 

“Well then,” Mick said, pushing himself up from the floor, “We’d better get started, huh?” He looked around, nodding. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Len grunted. “Hiding is right.” He cast his own slightly regretful glance around the house by the coast where he had spent so long putting his life back together. It had been a long couple of years.

“Well. Now you’re going home.” Mick’s smile was almost shy, and Len couldn’t help returning it.

“Yeah. _We_  are.”

The new apartment in Star City was small, but it was theirs. A couple of suburbs away from Lisa in one direction and Amaya in the other, but close enough to both that they could see family whenever they wanted. It was kind of perfect.

The kind of perfect Len still wasn’t totally sure he deserved. But he was trying to pretend he did.

Mick was peering into one of the half-filled boxes. “So where d’you wanna start?”

Len considered, looking around, and his eyes landed on the disturbingly large pile of dishes on the sink. He sighed and pointed at them.

Mick laughed. “You wash, I’ll dry.”

They were mid-way through the pile when a story from Mick about Ethan had Len drifting, on automatic pilot, into a tale of some scrap Lisa got into as a kid. When she was very young, and they were still living with—

And a light went on his head.

He stopped talking. Put down the dish he was holding.

When he looked up again, after who knows how long, Mick was giving him an odd look. “There’s something I gotta say—” Len started, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Mick raised an eyebrow and put down the dish cloth, turning around to lean against the counter and face him. “Okay?”  

Len winced, fighting the urge to pretend he hadn’t said it. “There’s one more thing we gotta talk about before we move in together.”

He didn’t want to _talk_  about this. Ever again. But he could see Mick knew where this was going already, twisting his suddenly-empty hands together. “You, uh…” Len started, and tried again. “You came pretty close to hitting me.”

Was that shame, that twisted Mick’s face up a bit? If it was, he wasn’t giving anything away, covering it up with a shrug. “I’ve seen you hold your own in a fight. Seen you win.” The words were rushed and mumbled.

Len pushed down another flash of memory. “In the street. Things cross the threshold of a… a home, that’s different.”

Mick’s gaze slid silently down to the floor.

Len turned around, his stare fixed where Mick couldn’t catch his eye. He had to get this out before he just shoved it back down again, pretended it had never happened. Like he always did when he was a kid. It was survival—but he didn’t have to be content with just surviving anymore. He glanced at his partner, who had taught him that. “Mick, you know I watched my father hit my mother for years, right?”

The rest of the words wouldn’t come out. He hadn’t talked about this in a long, long time. Not to Lisa. Not to anyone. He’d dropped hints about his past to Mick, but even they didn’t do this real talk.

He’d rather just… run away.

Mick’s eyes had widened at the floor, but he wasn’t saying anything.

“Mick,” Len pushed.

When he looked up at Len, his eyes were shiny. “Lisa said something, once. But I didn’t…” He shook his head. “I didn’t know.”

It was a shitty excuse, like too many others Len had heard, but at least it was honest. “Well, now you do.” He looked Mick dead in the eye. “If we’re gonna live in the same house, you don’t lay a hand on me, ever. Or we’re done. No excuses.”

Mick looked back at him, nodding slowly. “No excuses,” he agreed quietly. “I’m…” He swallowed, started again. “I’m sorry.”

He was really looking at Len like he was, too. Some of the weight on Len’s shoulders lifted. “I know.” He looked down at his shaking hand, forced it still against the counter. The silence dragged on, until he added, “I am too. For all the shit I… put you through.”

With an unsteady half smile at Len, Mick said, “You’ve really mastered that apology thing.” 

Len suppressed a returning smile. “Shut up.”

Mick picked up the plate that Len had left on the counter. It had dripped dry already, but he still ran the dish towel across it with a shaky hand.

“Earth to Lenny,” Mick said, dragging Len back after a minute more silence. He waved a hand in front of Len’s face where he’d stopped still, scalding water spraying over the plate in his hand. 

“Thought you’d think less of me,” Len muttered.

“Huh?”

“It’s… why I lied to you.” Len shrugged. “Most of why.”

“Oh.” Mick looked back at him for a thoughtful second. “I did think less of you,” he said, but he was grinning as he dried the next plate.

Len huffed a quiet laugh. He wasn’t sure what honesty looked like, but fighting against the urge to run was a start. “I made a lot of excuses for myself, back then, but I had my reasons for getting back into the game. Wasn’t just being a lazy bastard.” He caught Mick’s eye. “The year before, I was basically starving. Homeless, for a couple of months.” He passed another clean plate to Mick. “Even Lisa doesn’t know that.”

“Woah,” Mick said, with a sharp look over at Len.

Len traced the pattern on the next plate with his finger, a road of white twisting and turning through a red field, with no end. “No excuses, I know. I still didn’t have to lie to you. But sometimes you look at where your life has ended up, and you don’t like it, you know? So you tell yourself a better story."

A story of how he could never be better than his father. How he was cursed—stuck, and couldn’t trust a soul except himself. So he didn’t.

Not until much later, when, one close call with the grim reaper later, he woke up and found he was willing to trust just one person. So he did.

 _Broken pieces that fit together,_ Len found himself thinking, and then he wondered where that had come from. 

“Yeah,” Mick said, very quietly.

Len had to tap him on the arm before he accepted another plate. He’d been staring into space. Len wondered if he was reflecting on his own stories, but he didn't ask.

Mick glanced over at him, and the atmosphere in the room shifted. “You ever miss it? At least… the good parts of the job? ‘Cause that show you put on with the Santinis says maybe you do.” He grinned at Len, with awed, wide eyes.

“Maybe?” Len shrugged. “There’s not much else keeps me focused like that. The adrenaline’s really something.”

Mick nodded, smile playing on his lips. “I overheard Amaya offer you that job.”

“She meant it. It’d just be an occasional thing, but she thinks I could be useful.” He scrubbed at the edge of a bowl, eyes narrowing at it. “I don’t know if I’m gonna say yes, but…” He tilted his head at Mick. “You once said you had other things to live for, after the fire.”

A nod.

“Think I could find my way to thinking that too,” Len murmured, and he didn’t even try to hide the way he looked at Mick.

Mick was quiet for a minute. Then a hand arrived to demand the last plate from Len, who chuckled.

“And look at you now,” Mick said, approval in his voice. He nodded around the busy living room, with its corner desk piled high with notes and textbooks. “You’ve come a long way.”

“Well.” Len shrugged. “This didn’t exactly happen out of nowhere, either.”

Mick raised an eyebrow at him. “Tell me about it?”

Setting down the last dish, Len looked around the living room, piled high with half-full boxes. “We got a lot of work to do.”

“Were you planning to do it in silence?”

Len grinned, and Mick shot him a brilliant smile back.

* * *

Len paused at the top of the stairs, staring down the corridor at the half-open door to Mick’s apartment.

His last time here, he nearly didn’t make it out of the building alive.

He walked slowly past apartment 19, pausing at the closed door. The last time he’d been _there_  was… wow, nearly two years ago now. When he’d left without a word of goodbye to Mick.

God, he’d been a fool.

Unbidden, yesterday morning’s obituary came back to him. And the strange thought, that had been haunting him ever since he’d seen it—that he wanted his own to say something a little more… honest.

He was knocked out of his reverie by a bouncy ball rolling out of the door of apartment 17, slowing to a stop by his feet. He leaned down to pick it up. As he righted himself, someone half his size came running directly into him with a _thump_.

Sighing, Len looked down at one Ethan Rory, who was wearing an abashed grin. “Hi, Lenny!”

Len tilted his head, giving him an unimpressed look. “I see you haven’t figured out how to _walk_  indoors yet, kid.”

Ethan giggled. “Nope.” He held out his hand out for his ball.

“Oh, is this yours?” Len spun it skilfully in his hand, flexing old pickpocketing muscles he’d never really lost. “It’s nice. I was thinking I might keep it.”

Ethan tilted his head downwards, raising his eyes to look at Len in a perfect impression of him. “Lenny! That’s mine.”

“Oh, all right then.” Len let out a mock sigh, making to pass it back to Ethan—then pulling it away at the last moment. “But,” he said, “it just so happens that I got you a present. It’s at the new house. If you promise to be a little bit careful while we’re moving the last stuff out of here, I promise we’ll have a game when we get there.”

“A game?” Ethan’s eyes widened. “What is it?”

Len hummed. “Might be a new baseball and bat set, but keep that under your hat.” The kid laid a hand on his hatless head, and Len chuckled. “I mean don’t tell your father. He’ll say I’m spoiling you.”

Ethan’s face split into a conspiratorial grin as he accepted his ball back. “Okay!” He turned back to apartment 17, holding out his free hand. “You coming, Lenny?”

Len just looked at him for a second, wheels turning in his head.

Then he smiled, took the kid’s hand, and let Ethan lead him into Mick’s apartment.

Which was pandemonium. The place was almost empty, except for boxes scattered around the floor. Len barely had a chance to admire the new fittings, the place nicely updated since the fire. Amaya was simultaneously having a work conversation into her phone, packing kitchen items into boxes, and occasionally breaking off to tell Ethan to stop running in the hallway. Shawna was standing on the couch, reaching things down from a shelf and throwing them into a set of boxes, over which Lisa was very clearly in charge, if her barked orders were anything to go by.

“Took ya long enough,” Mick said, behind him.

Len turned around, grinning at him. “Roped in the whole gang, did you?” he drawled.

“‘Course. That’s what family’s for.” He raised his voice to Shawna, who was reaching precariously up to a framed picture of Ethan and Amaya. “Hey, doc, I want my stuff to arrive in one piece!”

Shawna grinned back, passing the next things to Lisa a bit, but not much, more carefully.

Len poked Lisa in the back, and she jumped. “God, Lenny, warn a girl before you appear behind her.” She scowled at her brother, and he resisted a smile at the memory of a ten-year-old telling him much the same thing.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming here first, Lise. We still have boxes at my place that I couldn’t fit into the car.”

“Oh, complain away, jerk. We’re taking the truck to your old place next.” She smacked him indulgently on the arm. “We’re working to a schedule, brother dear. Just do as you’re told.”

Len swiveled on his heel, aiming a put-upon look at Mick, who just said, “Family.”

“What can you do?” Len echoed with a grin.

It was at that moment that Ethan barrelled past him through the empty apartment towards the bedroom, waving his arms and shrieking. He reached the end of the little hallway, turned around and ran back again.

Len squeezed his eyes shut. “Does he do that a lot?”

Mick snorted again, slipping an arm around his partner’s waist. “It’s an empty apartment. I’m barely resisting the urge to do that.” Len choked a laugh. “And yeah, he does. Get used to it, buddy.”

“Guess I better had,” Len said, feigning a sigh.

Ethan skidded to a stop next to him, grinning up. “I won’t ride in the car with you if you’re mean, Lenny.”

Len raised an eyebrow. “Well, you’d better ask your mother if you’re riding with us at all, hadn’t you?”

Ethan screwed up his face. “Mom!” he yelled to his mother, a couple of feet away from him. “When we’re done, can I ride in the car with Dad and Lenny?”

Amaya, who had just hung up her phone call, folded one arm over the other, considering Len with a barely-suppressed smile.

“Pleeeease, Mom? Lenny’s really great and he doesn’t let me have candy like Dad does.”

Mick’s head emerged from a box, his face communicating no small measure of terror. “Thanks for dropping me in it, Squirt.”

“Sorry, Dad!” Ethan yelled, throwing himself down onto the couch.

Len knew better than to ask Amaya Jiwe why she trusted him more with a high-level covert FBI operation than with her son. He just aimed a wry grin her way.

“Fine.” Amaya pointed a finger at Len. “Absolutely no candy, Leonard Snart, no matter how much he begs.”

“Okay, but can _I_ have candy?” He grinned at her replying laugh. “I’ve had practice denying Mick sweets,” he added.

Amaya smirked at him. “Well, yeah. That’s harder.”

“You know it.”

Sometime during the next hour or so of chaos, Mick managed to find an almost-quiet moment. He grabbed Len’s arm, pulling him into the tiny hallway between the kitchen and the bedroom. “Hey—um.” He scratched his head.  
  
Len raised an eyebrow. “Yes…?”

“Wanted to give you this.” Mick held out a book.

Len blinked down at it. “ _Introduction to Firefighting_?” He tilted his head at Mick. “Sweet of you to think of it, but I think I’m gonna stick with civil engineering.”

Mick snorted. “I found it at your place after you, uh—you know.” Mick’s fingers skimmed across the book cover. “Figured maybe you’d want it as… I dunno. A souvenir?”

_A beer and a burger, and in exchange you let me help you study. Deal?_

“Guess you don’t need it anymore, huh?”

“Nope. I’m all done with the training now. And, uh…” His fingers were tapping the edge of the book shelf behind him. “Star City Fire Dept called today, offered me a paid job.”

“Mick...” Len started, feeling his eyes widening.

The grin on Mick’s face was everything Len ever wanted to see there. “I’m gonna be a real firefighter, Lenny. I can join you in the world of the successful people, huh?”

Len laughed, clapping him on the back. “As the only one of us who’s getting paid, you’re hitting the big time long before I will, buddy.”

He wanted to say he was proud of Mick. But neither of them had ever done words well. Even now, they got stuck when he tried.

But Mick had turned away already, reaching up to the shelf behind him. “Got you something else, too.” He passed Len a stuffed envelope. “I found a few of these. Thought I’d put ‘em together for you, in case you wanted ‘em.”

Len frowned at Mick, reaching into the envelope to find a collection of printed photos. One from the Action for Kids centre, from about a month ago, with little Olive sneaking a shy smile at Mick. Another from the beach, from the week Len had spent with Mick and his family—Ethan hitched up on his dad's shoulders, while Len passed him an ice cream. The Perseids in the field outside Keystone, on Mick’s birthday. When had Mick even taken that? A scowling Len curled up in front of a tiny electric heater, from the week the whole building’s heating gave up on them. And, at the back of the envelope, the place that started it all… Len’s old kitchen. 

He smirked up at his partner. “Didn’t take you for sentimental, Mick.”

“I ain’t!” Mick protested. “Just found a bunch of these around. Thought you’d like them.”

Len raised an eyebrow. “I can just about believe that for most of them, but—my old apartment kitchen, Mick?”

“Oh, that.” Mick scuffed his shoe in a dusty corner of the empty hallway. “I, uh, broke into 19 the other day. Just for old times' sake, y’know? They’ve refitted it all, it’s horrible. But the kitchen’s mostly the same. And I thought, eh, what’s a quick photo when you’re breaking and entering?”

Len pursed amused lips at him. “You broke in. For _old times' sake_.”

“Shut up.”

They walked back into the living room, arm in arm.

Len nudged Lisa with his shoulder as she passed, inclining his head at Mick. “You hear this one’s in paid employment?”

“Hey, Mick!” She high-fived him. “I knew you’d do it before Lenny did.”

Under raised eyebrows, Len coughed at her.

“Oh please, Lenny. You've got another year of your degree and two years of your Masters, and then we’ll talk.” She beamed at Mick, then turned back to Len. “Oh, talking of college, I brought you books! They’re in the truck. All my old engineering books, for your terrifying senior year.” She clapped him on the back. “It’s going to kill you. You’re welcome.”

Len aimed a stare at her. “And you had to fill up the truck with them _now_? Didn’t think of bringing them straight over to the new house later?”

“Nope,” she said, strolling away.

Mick tightened his arm around him. “She’s a trip, ain’t she?"

He smirked back. “Get used to it, buddy.”

Behind them, Amaya clapped her hands and picked up a box. “Right, folks, let’s get this show on the road. Ethan, with me. Lisa, Shawna—truck!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Lisa said, all but saluting, following Amaya out with another box, Shawna behind them with two more. Ethan jumped up to follow them out, twisting a tangle toy between his hands as he walked.

As he stared after Amaya, he felt a tap on the back from Mick.

“Help,” Len said. “She’s formidable. I’m scared. And I’m not scared of anyone.”

His partner chuckled. “That’s right. Get used to it, buddy.”

Len nodded at the last few boxes. “Guess we’d better get these and lock up, huh?”

Mick blinked at him. Then at the room. “Right. Time to do that.”

They stood there in silence for a minute or two, instead, in Mick’s little apartment. Now almost empty, other than the furniture he’d rented with the place.

Len looked at the couch he had tried to not to bleed all over, when Mick had stitched him up. Where they’d huddled together against the cold, that week when the building’s heating was out. He looked at the kitchen table, scraped up and falling apart, where Mick had first used the typewriter Len gave him.

He pointedly _didn’t_ look at the corner of the living room where he had been found, curled up and unconscious, by the firefighters.

Mick was giving him a funny look. “You okay, buddy?”

“Mm. Lot of memories here.” 

That got him a nod from Mick. “Good and bad.” Mick clapped Len on the back, stacking a couple of boxes, one on top of the other, and waving for Len to grab the last two. “Let’s go and make some even better ones, yeah?”

Len patted his back pocket, where he’d stashed the envelope full of photos. “You got it.” He stepped into the kitchen area, reaching down to pick up a box marked ‘mugs’.

As he did, he bumped a kitchen cupboard door with his hip.

The door fell off the cupboard.

Len looked at Mick.

Mick looked at Len.

When they’d finished laughing so hard that Len had to reach for his inhaler while Mick patted him uselessly and supportively on the back, Len grabbed his book bag from the couch. “Don’t worry, buddy. I got this.”

Pulling out a screwdriver, he carefully screwed the hinges of the cupboard back into place.

Then he tossed the screwdriver in the air, caught it again, and put it into his back pocket.

“Close your mouth, Mick,” he suggested, when he was done. “What did you think I was learning at college?”

Mick whistled. “Nothing nearly that practical,” he said, with an impressed nod.

Len grinned and put an arm around him. “Ready to go?”

Taking a final look around the apartment, Mick nodded slowly. “Yeah. Think I am.”

Laden with the last boxes, they closed the door behind them.

A few paces down the hallway, Len stopped. “Uh. Mick?”

“Yup?” Mick said, from ahead of him.

“You left me in charge of the keys, right?”

“Yup.”

Len nodded. “Pretty sure I left them on the table.”

The sigh was audible even from several feet ahead of him.

Putting down his box, Mick ambled back to the flat. He reached deep into his leather satchel and pulled out a paperclip. He winked at Len. “Some skills you never wanna lose.”

Len leaned against the wall next to him, laughing, while Mick picked the lock.


	15. Epilogue: 9 Maple Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse at Mick and Len's life together. Through breakfast with Ethan and coffee with Amaya, Mick reflects on being happy (enough)...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we reach the end! Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading this. We've loved reading your comments. 
> 
> If you've enjoyed this story, subscribe to the [series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1196128) to get the sequel, which focuses on Amaya and her new barista crush, with whom she starts having a whirlwind affair which is totally not a _relationship_... nope. Mick and Len might return (briefly) in that story, and Ethan definitely will! Hope to see you there! :)

**_Twenty-two years ago_ **

_The doors of the juvenile detention center were unlocked. Mick was callously dumped out front of the building, without a word of goodbye or good luck from his social worker._

_He didn’t look back._

_He walked slowly, step after painful step, towards his twelve-year-old brother and his six-year-old sister. They were beaming at him. Too young to know any better, to know that they should run from Mick and never let him come near them again._

_“Micky!” The shriek came from Molly, who had pulled out of her brother’s hand-hold and was running towards him._

_He let out an_ oomph  _as she smacked into him, wrapping her little arms around him. “You’re coming home,” she whispered, her little frame shaking a bit. Mick’s own hands shook as they moved slowly up to wrap around her._

_He didn’t have it in him to tell her that, no, he wasn’t coming home. He didn’t have a home anymore. Not since he’d tried to burn it down. Not since his mother... Not since his father had told him never to come home again._

_But, for this little girl, who needed him, he could pretend—for a bit. It was the least he could do, after everything he’d done to his family._

_"I’m always gonna be here for you, sis,” he whispered, and meant it. “Whatever happens.”_

_She pulled away to give him a hopeful smile, in spite of the tear tracks on her face._

_And, oh god, he should tell her to run._

_But he felt a tugging on his hand, and looked down to see hers wrapped around it. Not letting go._

_On his other side, a sad-looking Aiden, older and seasoned enough to know that this was temporary, set his mouth into a strong, determined line, and took hold of Mick’s other hand._  

_And the little family walked away from juvie together._

_It was good enough, for now._

* * *

**Now**

9 Maple Drive. An unassuming suburban home in an unassuming suburb of Star City. Big enough to house a family of three (sometimes four… sometimes six… and sometimes more). A decent-sized backyard for a kid to run around in, screaming with delight. Nice furniture and fittings—no cupboard doors falling off in the kitchen.

It wasn’t the kind of place Mick would ever have imagined ending up. But it was good enough.

Still, he was briefly regretting all his life choices at 6.30 that Saturday morning, with his son banging on the bedroom door while Mick pretended to be asleep. 

“Dad! Lenny! Are you awake?”

Beside him, Len groaned, turning face-down into his pillow. “No fair,” he whispered. “How does he even know I’m in here?”

“You always end up in here,” Mick hissed back. “He’s used to you.” He pulled a face that his partner couldn’t see. “Glad someone is.”

Muffled, Len said, “He’s pretty good with the whole QPR thing, isn’t he?”

Mick smirked at the back of Len’s head. “He asked me the other day if you were like my husband.”

Len surfaced at once, wearing a thoughtful look. “What did you say?”

“I said—nah, we’re more like him and his buddy Jacob.”

Len _hmm_ ’d. “The one from school? Inseparable, they do everything together?”

“That’s right.”

“Huh.” Len nodded pensively, pulling himself up till he was sitting against the headboard next to Mick. “Not far off accurate.”

Yawning, Mick added, “He’s a kid. They can deal with all kinds of things, if you’re just honest with ‘em. Now, you wanna keep whispering like we’re children too, or you want me to let him in?”

Len snorted, and raised his voice. “Hey Ethan, get in here.”

The door squeaked open, and a head of curls emerged around it. “That took you _ages_ ," Ethan complained. 

Despite the ridiculous hour of the morning, Mick couldn’t help grinning at his kid.

He was determined never to take a single weekend with Ethan for granted. Not after everything he’d put the kid through.

He patted the bed between him and Len. Ethan’s eyes lit up and he jumped across Mick, wriggling into the space between them. “Hi, Dad,” he said, nuzzling into his father’s side. Mick wrapped his son up in a hug.

“Hey, kid. What’s with the hiding?” Len complained.

“I’m feeling shy today,” Ethan said, in a mischievous voice that suggested the opposite.

“Oh, yeah? Well, we’d better not bother with those pancakes we were gonna make, huh?”

Ethan’s scowling face emerged immediately. “What if I wanna be shy _with_  pancakes?”

“Then that’s your right as a bosun on this good ship.” Mick ruffled his son’s hair. 

Ethan wrinkled his nose at him. “I’m a bosun?”

“That you are. I’m the captain and Lenny’s the first officer.”

“Hey,” mumbled Len, who’d squashed his face back into his pillow.

Ethan was frowning in concentration. “But a bosun does the chores, right?”

“Good point,” Len’s muffled voice said. “You don’t do those. Mick, better make Ethan the captain.”

Ethan's laugh was delightful.

They schlepped to the kitchen, Ethan talking all the while, and Len started on the pancakes.

Coming up behind his son, telegraphing oncoming physical contact, Mick made sure Ethan seemed okay with it, and then wrapped him up in a bear hug. “Hey, Squirt,” he said in his ear. “How’d you feel about coming for a visit to the station today?”

Ethan wriggled out of the hug, his eyes wide.  _“Really_ , Dad?”

“Really.”

“Oh yeah, _yeah!”_ He did a little jig on the spot. “Wow, the fire station! Do you have a hat, Dad?”

“I have a whole uniform, Squirt. I can show you.” He draped an arm around his son’s shoulder. “You remember when you were real little and dressed up in the firefighter costume I got for you?”

Ethan screwed up his eyes. “Nope,” he admitted eventually. He was doing that thing he did, where he was trying not to look sad about it, but couldn’t quite manage not to.

Mick tightened his arm around his son. He and Ethan had talked a bit—as much as Ethan could handle—about how he didn’t remember much from before his dad left. Mick had told his son how sorry he was about the missed years. (God, he was sorry.) Mick hoped he’d want to talk about it more, one day, but he wasn’t going to push him. One step at a time. At least they were going in the right direction.

“Hmm,” Mick said. “Well, we’ll just have to get you another one, now, won’t we?”

Ethan grinned.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mick caught Len smiling at them over his shoulder.

Mick patted Ethan on the back. “Okay, Squirt—go wash up, and we’ll serve up the pancakes.” 

Ethan squinted suspicious brown eyes at his dad. “You won’t eat mine?”

“Promise.” Mick was grinning wide as his kid slid out of his hold and headed towards the bathroom. He heard Len chuckle behind him, and spun around. “What?”

Len shook his head, serving up the first stack of pancakes. “You two are kinda cute.”

“We’re _damn_ cute, and you know it.” Mick slid into a seat and starting up a cheerful tapping on the underside of the table. 

Len had a thoughtful look on his face as he put a full plate on Ethan’s placemat. “You really gonna take him to the fire station?”

Mick stopped tapping to look at his partner across the table. “Sure. Why not?”

Len’s shrug was nonchalant, but his eyes betrayed meaning. “Never seen you let him get anywhere near you and fire before.”

It was a painful reference, setting something old and almost-forgotten clenching in Mick's gut. His hand came up to run slowly across his shaven head. “You remember before, when I said I was waiting till I was a firefighter before I went back into Ethan’s life?” 

“Yeah. You were being a jackass,” was Len’s comeback, tactful as ever.

“I was, but that ain’t the point,” Mick grumbled. He sighed, picking up his fork and setting up another tapped-out pattern against his plate. Words had never the easiest thing for Mick, and this was taking him a minute. Len leaned against the table, a question in his eyes, but he gave Mick time.

There was a lump in Mick’s throat that he hadn’t expected. “Fire thing’ll always be a part of me,” he said slowly. “I love my job for a few reasons—some good, some… less good.” His fork stilled under his hand. “But I took a thing that could have been the end of me, and made something worthwhile from it, you know?” 

“Better than worthwhile,” Len said, with a crooked smile.

Mick shrugged, eyes narrowed at his fork. “I ain’t gonna try to explain it all to him now. But I wanna start…”

He trailed off, and Len raised an eyebrow, waiting before offering help, in the patient way he always did. “You wanna start showing him some of it?”

He nodded. “Maybe one day he’ll take it all—the bad with the good.” Dropping into a mutter, he added, “Maybe he’ll still be proud of me.”

He could feel Len’s gaze burning into him. “You know you’ll always be his hero, right, Mick?”

“Maybe.” He ignored the annoying sting behind his eyes. “I used to think I had to change, to be that. And to be—”

Len waited, eyebrow raised.

“Yours,” Mick finished.

“Nope,” Len said softly. “You’ll always be mine, too.”

Mick looked up at him and smiled.

Len turned his attention back to the next batch of pancake mix. But he was clearly still thinking about it—a minute later, he said, “But you did change. In the ways that matter. That happy kid is all the proof you need.”

Out of words, now, Mick just grunted. But there was a warm feeling in his chest.

Ethan slid into his seat. “Okay, I’m done! Now pancakes?”

“Now pancakes.” Mick shoved the bottle of syrup in front of his son. “Save some for me and Lenny.”

“Sure, Dad,” he said, pouring on about a half a gallon of the stuff. He looked up at his dad and giggled. “Oops.”

“Uh-huh.” Mick knew he shouldn’t, that Ethan was getting too old to be treated like a kid—but he’d missed too much kid stuff with Ethan, and he was trying to catch up while he still had a little time left. So he reached out and ruffled his son’s curls, just like he so often did. A silly little gesture, to show his kid he cared. 

Ethan giggled through a full mouth. “I’m busy, Dad!” Despite the show of resistance, the early hint of pre-teen rebellion, Mick still got a grin from his son. He’d take it, while he could get it.

“Thanks for my pancakes, Lenny,” Ethan said, muffled through a full mouth.

As he sat down, Len’s look at Ethan was distinctly... fatherly. It had Mick putting down his fork and blinking over at his partner. Len didn’t notice, as he dripped syrup over his own pancakes and advising, “Chew, Ethan.”

“I am chewing, Lenny!”

“Well, don’t talk while you’re at it.”

“... _Fine._ ” 

Mick tuned out the good-natured argument and glanced out through the long kitchen window. Outside, the morning sunshine was blazing across the garden. It was looking to be a good day for a bit of a baseball game in the backyard, if Len’s chest was up to it. And then they’d go the fire station. Later they could drive into town for a movie, if Ethan was in the right headspace for it.

Voicing this idea to his son and his partner set up a whole new round of arguing, this time focused on whether _The Last Jedi_ or _Jumanji_ was the best way to spend an afternoon.

“Hey,” Mick interrupted. “Don’t get I get a say in this?” 

In unison, the other two said “No.”

He huffed loudly. “I was gonna suggest _The Greatest Showman_.” He nudged Ethan with his shoulder. “Did I tell you it’s got songs, Squirt?”

“Yeah, yeah, Dad.” Ethan scooped up an enormous forkful of pancake. “Musicals suck.”

Mick gasped dramatically, turning to Len for support. “Can you believe this is  _my_ kid?”  

Len’s half smile was a little bit indulgent. “I just barely see the resemblance.”

There at the table, with his son on one side of him and his partner on the other, an uninvited memory hit him.

_The best and the worst thing that ever happened to each other…_

He glanced at Len, who was still too busy talking to Ethan to notice. 

They’d spent too long doing the worst to each other. They’d lied, abandoned each other, hurt each other in too many ways. They were both damn fools, for too long.

But, Mick thought, as he watched his partner laughing with his kid, maybe they were past that. Maybe now they could could focus on being the best thing that ever happened to each other.

They were bound to make more mistakes… but they were getting there.

They were home. 

“Did I tell you Molly called yesterday?” Len said, giving the movie argument up as a bad job.

Mick smiled. “Yeah. I’ll call her today.” He poked his son, who yelped. “You wanna go see Aunt Molly and Uncle Ralph later?”

Ethan scowled. “Not today, Dad. Uncle Ralph tires me out.”

Mick snorted. “Good reason. Well, how about meeting Mom for coffee? She said she was finishing work early.”

“That sounds safer than the movie,” Len snarked, and Mick grinned at him.

“ _Amaya_ , safe?”

A chuckle. “Okay, maybe I should rephrase that.”

In the background, Ethan was repeating “Mom for coffee. Mom for coffee,” in that way that usually suggested he was good with it.

Mick sat back and smiled at his partner. He got a curious but warm smile back.

Whatever they did, it was going to be a good day. 

* * *

“Okay, Ethan, I got you a hot chocolate. Enjoy it—that’s your sugar quota for the week.” 

Ethan scowled. “This week or last week?” 

Mick’s fingers were tangled in Len’s as they sat on the two-seater couch in the coffee house, with Ethan on the one opposite, while Amaya handed out the drinks. “Let the poor kid enjoy his bit of sugar, Amaya,” Mick said, grinning at his son in solidarity.

Amaya threw up her hands and sat down next to Ethan. 

They slipped into a conversation about the fire station, Ethan bouncing up and down with excitement as he described it. “And Dad let me wear his _hat!”_

“Did he, now?” Amaya gave Mick a smile, hinting at surprise but not disapproval.

Mick took a gulp of his black coffee. Next to him, Len was sipping an iced latte, looking incongruously content. Mick found himself huffing a laugh.

He still couldn’t believe his luck, some days.

“What?” Len asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing.” But he didn't stop grinning at Len, who cycled through an annoyed frown, an indulgent smile, and a shrug of acceptance. Mick just bounced his eyebrows at his partner.

“Amaya,” Len drawled, after a minute more conversation. “Ethan asked you a question, and you’re staring at the barista. We don’t really mind if you’re in love... but still.”

“What? Oh, oh no! That’s silly.” But she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and looked quickly away from the coffee house counter.

Mick glanced up at the barista. She was definitely attractive, and definitely Amaya’s type. He approved of the Motorhead t-shirt, too. “Nice.” He aimed an evil grin at Amaya. "She the reason you insisted on this particular cafe?"

“Shut up,” she griped, and he grinned wider at her. She hit him over the head with her book. “Oh god, she’s coming over,” she said desperately, and Len snorted.

They were all helpfully silent as the barista made her way over to pick up the used coffee mugs scattered around the table.

“Thanks, uh—Zari.” Amaya was looking at the barista’s name tag, talking in that distressingly awkward way she did when she liked someone. Mick was working hard not to laugh into his coffee. “I, uh, guess we could have brought the cups over ourselves…” 

“It’s fine. I exist to serve customers’ laziness,” Zari said, in a tone of proficient sarcasm.

“Uh. Sorry,” Amaya said.

And Zari glanced up. Her scowl softened into a brief little smile as she looked at Amaya. “Don’t worry about it.”

As soon as she was gone, Amaya buried her head in the arm of the sofa. “Oh god.”

Ethan reached out and tapped Mick’s arm. “What’s wrong with Mom?” 

“An excellent question,” Len said, with a smirk at Amaya.

Mick was _not_ dealing with this one. “Amaya?”

She raised her head slowly. “They’re laughing at me because they think I like the barista,” she explained, with a hand on Ethan’s shoulder.

“Oh!” Ethan said, with a bounce. “You like her like _that?"_

Mick almost spit out his coffee. “You ain’t ten yet, Ethan. How do you even know about liking people like that?”

Amaya shot him a deeply grateful look for the almost-change of subject.

“I’m not _five_ , Dad. Nearly everyone at my school has someone they like  _like that_. Louise in my class just started going out with Nisha.”

“Well, good for them,” Mick said, but his eyes were on Amaya. She was staring at the counter again, where Zari was shoving cups into the dishwasher. If it had been a cartoon, there’d have been a black raincloud above the barista's head.

He hadn’t seen Amaya look at anyone like that in a long time. Maybe not since she was with him. But the stab of nostalgia that came with that thought was fleeting. Because, as Mick looked around at his family—with Len at the center, loved by everyone, grumpily loving them back—Mick couldn’t imagine being happier.

It was a strange thought, but a good one. 

Len touched his arm. “Penny for ‘em,” he said quietly, while Ethan and Amaya were distracted.

Mick gazed silently at him, tangling their fingers tighter together. Damn words that wouldn’t come. But Len just waited for him to get there, looking down at his coffee with a little smile, as patient with Mick as ever. “I’m glad you’re here, Len,” Mick managed, finally.

It wasn’t a perfect explanation. But it was good enough.

Len looked up from his coffee. Behind his usual smirk was the hint of a real smile, in a way only Mick would recognise. “Glad you’re here too, Mick,” he said, quietly.

And there the whole _feelings_ thing clearly got too much for poor Lenny, and he barged into Amaya and Ethan’s conversation with an exaggerated, sarcastic drawl.

But he didn’t let go of Mick’s hand. And Mick didn’t miss it when Len snuck a quick grin back at him.

From one mistaken break-in and one broken cupboard door... to one exceptional family.

It was good enough for Mick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after. Mostly. I mean, this _is_ Len and Mick... :D
> 
> Thank you again for reading and see you in the sequel! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from [the poem by Robert Frost](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44266/mending-wall).
> 
> I use double tagging (both / and & ) to indicate a queerplatonic and/or ambiguous coldwave relationship, which this will remain, throughout the fic.
> 
> Come find me at [tumblr](https://sophiainspace.tumblr.com/).


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